Two To Tango
by Lassar
Summary: Sequel to Miscomm. Sara asks Ian out on a date, and ends up tangling with Dominique's daughter. finished
1. Default Chapter

Two to Tango Author: Lassar Email: Dragonrampant@yahoo.com Rating: PG-13 although I reserve the right to change the rating if it comes to that. Summary: Sequel to Miscommunication. Sara asks Ian out, thanks to a little nudge from our resident Cupid-in-training, Vicki Po. You'll never guess where she's taking him. Ok, so you might. Heh. Couldn't resist. A/N: This is for all the wonderful people who pestered me for a sequel. There is no greater gift I can give in return than this. Read, enjoy (I hope!) and review. Please  
  
Sara Pezzini, homicide detective extraordinaire and all around Cupid hater, blew in to work the day after Valentines' with a huge grin on her face. It wasn't quite the 'I-got-laid' smirk, more like 'the cat that got the canary', which only fueled the gossip traveling around the squad room.  
  
Everyone had heard about the male stripper that had been Pezzini's Valentine present, even though all anyone had seen was his booted, helmeted, leather booty clad person leaving the station. They were all rather put out that they'd missed the show. Jake was persona non grata for not apprising them of the situation. Of course, McCarty was in trouble over the obscene amount of feminine attention he had received anyway, so it didn't make an appreciable difference in the cold on the shoulders of his male coworkers.  
  
The only bad thing about spurning McCarty was that no one had the inside scoop on yesterday's incident. Captain Dante had walked in on the end of the striptease, intending to add another case to their workload, and had been completely sidetracked by what he encountered. He told Orlinski, who told everyone else, that the guy had been straddling Pezzini's lap. He also said she was grinning like an idiot and damn near drooling on the guy's package, which had been at eye level.  
  
That was really all Dante knew. He'd lectured the detective in his office for an hour, and never once asked who the guy was, or who had sent him. All the women greeted that spectacular lack of curiosity with a frown. Each one had been thinking about hiring him for herself after watching him strut out of the building in that little leather thong, the rest of his clothing draped casually over one arm. He really had the most amazing. brass.  
  
Since their captain had failed them, the women sent for their not- exactly-secret weapon, Vicki Po. The curly-haired forensic scientist with the personality of a demented elf was Sara's best friend on the force. If anyone could get all the juicy details, it was she.  
  
Vicki offered no objection to their plan; she had every intention of finding out for herself anyway. Sara had a hot guy strip down in her office? Oh yeah, she was soooo there. In fact, she had beaten Pezzini in to the building by a good half hour, and was now waiting in Pez's office to pounce. She'd even sprung for coffee and a dozen chocolate long johns, the irony of them being too much to resist, as a bribe. Caffeine and sugar always made Sara talkative.  
  
The whole department was in on the plan to extract more data, so when they saw Pezzini coming they tried to look casual, pretending to type or answer phones as Pez waltzed into her office. They might as well have not bothered. Sara was floating along on her own little cloud, oblivious to everything but the events of the previous day.  
  
When Sara opened her door, all she could see was the piles of balloons, flowers, candy, and stuffed animals that Jake had acquired yesterday. The jerk could at least take his trophies home, instead of leaving them out like some kind of huge brag board. The gifts had been given in sincerity, and much as she might hate to admit it, the women who had gone to all this effort deserved better than this adolescent display.  
  
She scowled for a moment, then her face cleared as the intoxicating scent of her tea roses reached to where she stood in the doorway. Sara once again smiled that dopey, happy smile of someone in deep as she thought about the rest of her presents. Some of the gifts captured more of her attention than others, to be sure.  
  
The Godiva chocolates had been fabulous. Sara thought they might have tasted even better if she'd eaten them off the cobblestone abs of a certain surprisingly talented assassin. She licked her lips as she moved the rest of the way in, closing the door behind her.  
  
"Hmmm, what could you be thinking about? Or do I need to ask?" the cheery voice of Vicki Po seemed to come out of the air.  
  
Sara nearly jumped out of her skin. "Heya Vicki, didn't see you behind all the decorations."  
  
Vicki batted the balloon bouquet to one side and grinned. "Didn't see me for the after-Valentine's Day sale display, or didn't see me because you're thinking about a sexy mmmmmaaannn?"  
  
Pezzini laughed as Po drew out the last word in a singsong voice, complete with eyebrow bobbling. The urge to share details with someone who would appreciate them bubbled inside her. It was good to have her here, now Sara wouldn't have to wait until she could find some pretext to go down to the morgue to, figuratively speaking, spill her guts.  
  
"What I'm about to tell you can't go any further than this room, capuche?" Sara sat on the edge of her desk and leaned forward, too excited to bother kicking Vicki out of her chair.  
  
"With all those vultures out there waiting for the news? Are you crazy?" Vicki hiked a thumb back toward the glass window of the office. The amount of officers, male and female, 'working' in the vicinity of the office was laughable.  
  
"Hmmm, you may have a point. I don't think you'd make it out of the area alive if you kept your silence. I guess you'll have to tell them something. I'd miss you if you were gone." Sara rolled her eyes and tried to think of something good enough to keep the rumor mill entertained and away from the truth. For some reason Pez did not think Nottingham would appreciate being the topic of conversation for a bunch of bored flatfoots. Not that she was either, but there was no getting out of it for her.  
  
"Why don't you tell me what happened, and we'll come up with something you can live with the masses knowing." Vicki said pragmatically as she dug into the sack of donuts.  
  
"That sounds like an excellent suggestion. Oh-mi-gawd, are those chocolate covered long johns? Why you little Freudian darling you." Sara snatched up one of the rather phallic shaped donuts while laughing again. That woman really was shameless.  
  
Vicki sat back in her purloined chair and listened to Sara's story with an expression that would have done the Cheshire Cat proud. She didn't think she'd seen Pez this animated about anything since Danny had died. It was nice to see her starting to live again, instead of simply exist.  
  
"Kenneth Irons?" Some fifteen minutes into the story Po almost choked on her coffee as Sara finally told her whose name had been on the card.  
  
"Yeah, I know. Very out of character for someone like him. As it turns out, there was some kind of mix-up with the delivery arrangements. NOT that I am complaining, mind you." Sara got that goofy grin again as she flashbacked to the gyrating, nearly naked body of Ian Nottingham. Who knew the man had those kinds of moves hidden under his trench coat?  
  
"I don't suppose you got the stripper's name, or the company that he works for, did you? There are several women panting to know. I gotta tell ya, if he looks even half as good as the rumors say, I'm probably going to book a delivery before leaving your office. I want to see him while he's still fresh." Po bobbled her eyebrows meaningfully. All that was left was for her to adopt a British accent and say 'Wink wink, nudge nudge. Say no more.'  
  
"How could I? Dante all but dragged me into his office for a lecture about unprofessional behavior as soon as the music stopped. I thought I was never going to see him again, outside of my dreams." Pez sighed wistfully. She almost hadn't. If Irons hadn't seen Nottingham's beard puckering, if she hadn't forgotten her keys, and had to go back for them, she'd still be clueless. There was no way Ian would have willingly confessed to his role.  
  
"I hear a 'but' in that last sentence." Vicki dragged Pezzini's attention back to the present.  
  
"But, and this part is not for public consumption, the stripper turned out to be someone close to Mr. Irons." Sara was cut off as Vicki started to laugh.  
  
"Oh, let me guess. The tall, dark, and studly Mr. Nottingham, right?" Just thinking about Sara's face when she found out was enough to send Po off again.  
  
"How did you? Oh never mind. Yes, it was Nottingham." Sara rolled her eyes as Vicki bounced in the wooden chair, clearly pleased at having guessed correctly.  
  
"So, when are you two going out again?" Po asked once she got over her fit of the giggles. It was hard to keep a straight face; her imagination kept giving her such lovely visuals of Sara with her jaw on the floor.  
  
"Uhmm, he didn't exactly have a chance to ask," Sara shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.  
  
"Your fingers aren't broke, call Nottingham, and ask him out." Vicki said firmly. It would be just like Pez to blow this. She always was a wuss where relationships were concerned. If the guy didn't chase Sara like crazy, she thought he wasn't really interested. Too bad the department shrink was such a joke, or Po might suggest that Pezzini take some couch time and deal with her self-worth issues.  
  
"Ask him out to do what?" Sara shot back. If Vicki had some brilliant plan, she was ready to hear it.  
  
The idea had been on Sara's mind since her drive back from the mansion last night, she just couldn't think of anything. Working for the man who owned most of New York, Nottingham had been exposed to every cultural landmark in the city. He had no doubt eaten at restaurants that Sara couldn't afford a glass of water from.  
  
The movie idea was right out, Sara didn't think her nerves were good enough to sit next to Ian for two hours in the dark. Especially when one takes into consideration how small the seats were. His leg would be pressed against hers the entire time and his arm on the armrest would be just below her breast. Oh no, that was so not an option. She'd end up jumping him like some oversexed teenager.  
  
"Since he moves so well, how about clubbing in the Village?" Vicki plastered an innocent look on her face.  
  
"No."  
  
"Your place, for a night of wild sex?"  
  
"Vicki Po! Not for a first date!"  
  
"That's not what I heard about you."  
  
"You know, I seem to remember a certain Christmas Party."  
  
"Touché. Bungee jumping from Manhattan Bridge?"  
  
"No. I don't even think that's legal."  
  
"It's not. Since when has that mattered?"  
  
"Since I am an officer of the law, sworn to abide by and uphold said law."  
  
"You are no fun at all. Oh, I know. How about taking him to that new tango club that got those rave reviews in the Village Voice?"  
  
"N-" Sara stopped mid-rejection and thought about it. This idea had merit. It was new, so he probably hadn't been there, it was classy enough she shouldn't run into her coworkers, and as long as she didn't order too many drinks from the bar, affordable. Best of all, it was something she'd always wanted to learn, but never had the opportunity.  
  
"Well, do we have a winner?" Vicki asked after several moments of silence. She had never been particularly patient, especially when it was somebody else's love life being organized.  
  
"Yes, yes we do. Now go out there and brave the lions. While they're picking your brain I should have a few minutes of peace and quiet, so I can call Nottingham. Remember, it was a mix-up at the delivery service and I don't know who it was." Sara made a shooing gesture with one hand while reaching for her cell phone with the other.  
  
Vicki mock-saluted, winked, and sauntered out the door. Sara watched her go with a grin, shaking her head as the poor woman was mobbed. She turned toward the window, not wanting to witness the carnage.  
  
Pez surfed down her phone's memory to the number she'd saved under the name Morpheus, since the first time Nottingham had called he'd asked if she'd had any dreams lately. It was the best she could come up with, since Sara was too smart to leave the name of an assassin on a department issued phone.  
  
Or would that be too paranoid? Was it even possible for a cop to achieve such a state? Sara mused as she listened to the phone ring.  
  
"Hey Nottingham," Sara began, consciously echoing that old conversation, her tone flirty.  
  
"Hey Sara," Nottingham sounded surprised, but pleased.  
  
"I was just wondering, what are you doing tonight?"  
  
"The same thing I do every night, Sara."  
  
"Try to take over the world?" Sara couldn't quite get the whole question out before the laughter began.  
  
"Excuse me?" Nottingham was confused and slightly offended.  
  
"Sorry, I guess you've never watched 'Pinky and the Brain'." Sara shook her head, slightly disgusted with herself. Of course Nottingham hadn't watched the show; it was a cartoon. The phrasing had been coincidental, not deliberate. She really needed to stop hanging out with Jake. Rookie partner in need of guidance or not, he was having a detrimental effect on her television habits.  
  
"No, I have not. What can I do for you?" Ian made a mental note to find this program. If Lady Sara thought it worthwhile, he would see it for himself.  
  
"I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me. There's a new tango bar that just opened up, I'd like to check it out." Sara found that she was holding her breath waiting for Nottingham's reply.  
  
"The Marimba? I would be honored." Ian finally replied through his sense of shock. He had not expected to hear from Sara so soon, and to have her deliberately seeking his company for a date! A date that, by virtue of where they were going, he would be required to spend holding her in his arms. Nottingham would pinch himself to see if he was truly awake, but this was one dream he didn't want to end.  
  
"Great! Can you pick me up? The Buell is hard on party clothes."  
  
"Certainly. What time should I call on you?"  
  
"They give free lessons to the early birds, so swing by the apartment around seven."  
  
"I shall. Thank you for inviting me."  
  
"Thank you for accepting." Sara hung up, giddy with relief. She had half expected Nottingham to shoot her down. Now she just had to figure out what she was going to wear, find a way to cut out of work early, and somehow get through the day without killing Jake, who was already late.  
  
If Jake had a date last night with even a quarter of the women who sent him goodies, he was probably lying somewhere, to dehydrated to pick up the phone. Sara had a good chuckle imagining him a withered husk as she opened the first file on her desk. She tried to read it, she really did, but visions of being swept around the dance floor in Ian's arms kept distracting her. By the time Jake did arrive, over an hour later, Sara was still on that first page. 


	2. Like the dress?

Two to Tango: Chapter 2 A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Especially for those of you who have taken the time to go back to Miscommunication and review there as well. Love ya! Here's more Ian POV, thanks for the suggestion.  
  
Nottingham knocked on Sara's door at seven on the dot. Despite her inference that the time was flexible, Ian knew better than to arrive early. He had frequently observed that the best way to put the lady in a defensive mood was to be present when she was unprepared. It didn't matter what it was, Pezzini could get her back up faster than any cat in the entire city. She was beautiful when angry, her green eyes glowed like emerald fire, but he preferred not to be on the receiving end of her temper.  
  
He was nervous enough about this 'date' thing. Even though he watched over Sara nightly, hence his evasive answer when she called this morning, they had virtually no interaction. Nottingham was not good with casual conversation, not like Irons. His employer and mentor could charm the pants off anyone when he put his mind to it. Only Detective Pezzini seemed to have any kind of immunity, but that could have been an oblique gift bestowed by the Witchblade.  
  
All thought flew out of his head as Sara answered the door. She was a vision of loveliness unsurpassed. Her dress was a sheath style, sleeveless, in the same vibrant green of her eyes. She had tamed her brunette locks into a sleek chignon, which served to emphasize her high cheekbones and the curve of her neck. As she stepped back to let him in, the slit in her skirt flashed a long line of toned and tanned thigh.  
  
Ian thought he might expire on the spot. He was vaguely aware that she was speaking, he watched her luscious mouth move, but he couldn't for the life of him assign meaning to the sounds. He struggled to focus; the last thing he wanted was to stand here gawking like some great idiot, and finally managed to return to coherence.  
  
"Well, I guess that means you like the dress, huh?" Sara was saying with a small grin playing around her lips. It was a soft, feminine amusement, unlike the harsh mockery he was usually treated to, and Nottingham found himself grinning back.  
  
"It is not the dress, but the woman wearing it, who takes my breath away." Ian looked deep into green eyes, willing her to see that she was desirable to him always.  
  
"Flatterer. Just hang on a minute, I need to put my earrings on, grab my coat, and we can go." Sara pulled away from him, not comfortable with the emotion in those soulful brown orbs. It should be illegal for anything but puppies to have eyes like that.  
  
Sara had waited until the last minute to put on the earrings she'd bought to go with the dress. The salesgirl had convinced her that she could carry it off, and they did look damn good with her hair up. The jewelry was a little heavy though. Pezzini didn't normally buy anything this big, and she never wore earrings while working. It was a good way to have your earlobe torn.  
  
Ian stood just inside the door, waiting patiently. He was strangely hesitant to move around. Nottingham had been in her apartment so many times, but never before with permission. He did not wish to wear out his welcome.  
  
This concern did not extend to his sight, so Ian let his eyes wander where they would. The loft was very open, he could see a great deal without moving from the spot. The remnants of Chinese takeout sat on the kitchen counter, her jacket and helmet slung across the other end. Nottingham could even see his regular monitoring point through her windows. That was not something he wanted to think about, so he cast his eyes to the left.  
  
She must have left work early enough to go shopping; he could see the end of a Bloomingdale's bag peeking around the edge of the couch. That must be where the green dress came from; surely he would have remembered it, had it been hanging in her closet on his previous incursions. The realization that Sara had bought the dress specifically for their date stopped him cold.  
  
Maybe she felt more for him than he had allowed himself to hope. Nottingham relaxed a little, part of him had been concerned that Sara was going to treat him like the other men that had moved through her life. This was the first time she had gone shopping before a date since Irons had assigned him the duty of watching over the Wielder, and it cheered him considerably.  
  
The possible reaction of his employer to this evening did not bear commenting on. Irons would be furious if he knew what Nottingham was up to. Fortunately, he was otherwise engaged this evening with the wife of a political rival. Kenneth would be suitably distracted by the blonde's overblown charms, doing his best to strip her of her clothes as well as any information about her husband's activities that she might possess.  
  
Ian knew he couldn't always count on Kenneth's social calendar keeping him unaware of Sara's. It was something Nottingham was going to have to deal with eventually. Right now he was waiting to see what developed. No sense burning his bridges until he knew where he was going. Hopefully, wherever that was Sara would be there with him. 


	3. What are you thinking?

Sara came out of the bathroom as if summoned by his thoughts. She had touched up her lipstick and put on a short silver chain with a green stone pendant that nestled just above her cleavage. Swinging from her ears were tastefully faux rhinestone and glass chandelier earrings.  
  
Ian burned to replace them with the real diamonds and emeralds she deserved, but was careful to keep such thoughts from his face. Instead, he held out his arm for her to take. Sara smiled at his gentlemanly gesture, but neatly avoided it in the form of a detour for her coat.  
  
"It doesn't exactly go, does it?" Sara asked as she hefted the jacket, looking at the contrast between black leather and green satin. Making a face, Pez shrugged into the coat. The leather creaked slightly as she walked to the door.  
  
"You look lovely. I shall be the envy of every man there." To Ian the biker jacket and fancy dress seemed indicative of the nature of the woman next to him, vulnerable heart under a tough exterior.  
  
He knew Sara was afraid of losing anyone else she cared about. Nottingham had waged an uphill battle just convincing her to take a chance on him. Without the guiding hand of Fate, in the guise of a static-laden phone call, he would still be quite firmly on the outside.  
  
The fight for her heart he was going to continue to wage one day at a time, lest the enormity of the struggle overwhelm them both. Ian had to remember not to push her to acknowledge his feelings, the love he felt for her made her uncomfortable. He knew it was her fear, and her belief that anyone she cared about was doomed to die, but her previous rejections had hurt him.  
  
Ian didn't know if he could take it again, not once she had begun to open up to him, so things were going to go slow and easy. No matter what. Sara was not going to be able to pull him into a whirlwind relationship, only to dump him when he started to get to close. He'd seen it before, and he wasn't going to fall into the trap. He wanted more than temporary access to Sara's body, he wanted to be part of her heart and soul.  
  
"You're awfully quiet," Sara teased, tugging on his arm. They had made it all the way to the doors of the apartment building in silence, which she found odd. Most first dates the guy couldn't shut up, babbling on and on in an effort to impress her. The quiet was actually nice, it was wonderful to be with someone self assured enough to just be with her, but she wanted to get to know Nottingham better.  
  
"Just thinking about this evening. I hope you don't mind, but I borrowed one of Mr. Iron's limousines. I have a great many skills, but finding a parking space in downtown New York is not one of them," Ian quirked his mouth upward depreciatingly.  
  
"Mine either. It's good to be a cop. I just park the Buell wherever I want." Sara chuckled. There were more bennies than free coffee at Starbucks for being an officer of the law, and those parking permits were the best of the bunch.  
  
Nottingham held the door open for Sara. She stepped carefully on her black high heels out into the bitter cold; mid-February in NYC was still very much winter. There were dirty pockets of snow on the ground, and ice slicked the concrete, waiting to trip the unwary. The building super was too tightfisted to salt, and too lazy to scrape, so gaining entry to the building was always an adventure. In these shoes it could be more than adventure, it could be a medical mishap.  
  
If Sara didn't hate the idea of taking care of a yard, she'd volunteer for one of those 'Officer Next Door' programs and buy a house of her own. The program made the housing pretty cheap, at least for New York. She cast a sideways glance at her dark shadow. Wonder where he'd hang out to watch me then? No conveniently flat rooftops or fire escapes on single-family dwellings.  
  
Nottingham crooked an elbow, and this time Sara took it. She was grateful for Ian's arm as they walked across slippery concrete. With his assistance, she made it to the vehicle without incident. The limousine was the stretch version, a long silvery-grey testament to wealth and privilege. Sara had never ridden in one, but she'd heard about all the luxuries built into them, and she was looking forward to seeing what was really inside.  
  
Ian sat back with a grin, watching Sara push every single button she could find. Her behavior was very similar to that of a child unleashed in a candy store. Nottingham had been afraid that the car ride might have turned out to be awkward. It looked like he had nothing to worry about; Sara was enchantingly captivated by the interior of their transport.  
  
In a way Ian was relieved, for there had been no uncomfortable silences, but he was a little put out that Sara could ignore his closeness so entirely. He found her presence completely distracting. It was exceedingly difficult for him to turn his attention to anything besides the way she smiled, the light touches she bestowed without thought, or the flash of thigh as she leaned forward to play with the control panel yet again.  
  
Nottingham knew he had to get a grip; they would be much closer than this while dancing. Sara would not be impressed if he trod on her feet because he wasn't paying attention to the steps. At least he had a rudimentary knowledge of the dance. Many of Mr. Irons formal entertainments, while in Argentina on business a few years ago, had showcased the dance.  
  
The Tango had captured Ian's attention in a way that no other organized dance form had ever managed. One evening he had learned about the history of the dance from one of the performers as she waited backstage. She had been all to willing to tell him it's origins and development, as proud of the dance as she was her people.  
  
Ian couldn't help but wonder how much Sara really knew about the Tango. It was passionate, yes. It was also aggressive. In fact, the dance had originated as a form of sexual dueling between a prostitute and her potential partner or pimp. Nottingham wondered if he should mention that little fact, but decided not to. He would rather not risk offending her before they even got out of the vehicle, for she was bound to take the information negatively.  
  
A/N: Cindy, see more chapters! You will get to see them dance. I promise. Heh. Sparky, how do you like the Ian perspective? Sorry I made you wait so long for this sequel. Thelma- Pinky and the Brain were my favorites from Animaniacs. I was glad when they got their own show. (and I'm in my thirties. Proof that you really DON'T have to grow up) I think we can all agree it was 'that good a lapdance' LOL. SciFiGirl- Hoping you are enjoying these next few chapters. OhThoseEyes- I hope I haven't kept you waiting to long for a new chapter. I had Imbolc festivities this week, which slowed me down some. 


	4. Off with the coat

"Why don't you leave your coat in the limo? We will not have to wait in line, I can assure you of that. When we're ready to go, I can call Robert. He will swing back to pick us up. The door is so close you won't have a chance to get cold." Ian coaxed as the limousine slowed, waiting to pull up to the entrance of the club.  
  
"No waiting in line, and door to door service? You'd better be careful, I could get used to all this." Sara teased as she shrugged out of her coat and laid it across the seat.  
  
"I can think of worse fates than catering to your every whim," Ian was taken again by the beauty of the playful woman beside him.  
  
"Oh, surely not all of them?" One brow came up to emphasize the innuendo. Sara knew she was flirting shamelessly. He was normally so reserved that she wanted to prick that calm, just so she could see the real man underneath. Judging from the faint flush on Ian's face, she was succeeding in her mission.  
  
"You have but to ask," Nottingham replied softly, shocked at his own daring, for he meant every word.  
  
"I just might." Sara purred, leaning across the white leather interior to trace one finger across his lips.  
  
Nottingham thought his heart would beat him to death. His lips tingled under her touch, and he parted them slightly in subconscious invitation. Sara leaned toward him. She was going to kiss him; Ian just knew it.  
  
"Sir, madam, we have arrived." The voice was slightly tinny, coming as it did from the intercom, but it was enough to ruin the moment. The two jumped apart, each eyeing the smoked glass partition with varying degrees of chagrin.  
  
"Thank you Robert." Ian replied, wondering how long the limousine had been stopped. He hoped it had not been long.  
  
"Were you planning to wear your coat in, after talking me out of mine?" Sara looked at him in surprise as Nottingham reached for the door handle.  
  
"Would you believe I forgot I had it on? I wear it so much that I don't really feel it any more." Ian said ruefully. It was true, as far as it went. The coat was like several pieces of his arsenal, he wore them so much that he only noticed them when he was without the item.  
  
He did not need the wool trench coat for protection from the weather, which didn't bother him until well below freezing, but for concealment of said arsenal. One could hide a multitude of things under its folds, including clothing that was a deviation from his norm. He had needed it tonight, when leaving the mansion, to avoid note. Ian was reluctant to part with it now because he was still not comfortable in this attire, even though Sara had seen him in a great deal less yesterday.  
  
Nottingham had copied his outfit from the clothing he had seen worn on the dance floors of Argentina. White was conspicuous, in his line of work wearing it made you a very easy target. Yet here he was, dressed in an open- throated white shirt with full sleeves.  
  
At least his pants were still black, even if they were more form fitting than he cared for. God help him if he had to kick higher than his chest, the inseam could not possibly withstand the strain. Not that his shoes would fare well either, black dress shoes did not come in a steel- toed, shock-absorbent version. He should know, he'd had reason enough over the years to look for them.  
  
The door of the limo opened and the white-gloved hand of a valet could be seen hovering discreetly, waiting to assist if needed. Ian slid out without help, his clothes were not so constricting as he liked to complain to himself that they were, and reached back to offer Sara his hand.  
  
Sara stared up at him from the interior of the limousine, green eyes gone dark with feminine admiration. Pez knew Nottingham was attractive. She had seen quite a bit of him just yesterday, but this was different. He really should wear white more often. It was very, very flattering. The sharp contrast of light and dark was arresting. Of course, it didn't help her hormones any that the shirt would not have looked out of place on the cover of any of the romance novels she kept stashed under her bed.  
  
Her guilty little pleasure, one she would probably have to be tortured to admit to, was that she liked the happy ever after romances. The larger than life heroes, the change in locale and time were miles away from the world she lived in, and it was fun to visit when she needed to unwind.  
  
To be honest, there were some great sex scenes in there too. Sara had a feeling she knew whose face she was going to be picturing the next time she read one. All she needed to do was imagine his hair, which was pulled back in a tail at the base of his neck, let loose to fall around his face to complete the vision. Of course, with it tied back there was nothing to distract from the strong jaw, high cheekbones, intense brown eyes, and lips made for kissing.  
  
"You look incredible." Sara managed, after licking her own suddenly dry lips. Incredible was one word for it. Hot was another, more appropriate word, but she didn't want to sound juvenile.  
  
"Thank you." Ian said softly, a blush creeping across his cheeks. Nottingham missed the concealment of his beard at that moment, but he had shaved the stubbly new growth in honor of their date. He didn't want to look scruffy, even though his face was cold without the facial hair.  
  
Sara thought the blush was cute, and made a mental note to compliment him more often. She took his hand, glad for the assistance again. Between the shoes and the unfamiliar dress, the chance for a graceful exit from the vehicle unsupported was slim.  
  
A/N: Thelma, good picks. I also love Dexter's Lab. I'll be mature the same day we have an honest politician. (I think I'm pretty safe LOL) Erin and eteria, hope you've enjoyed the new bit. Sirli, no wipeouts planned, unlike my Anita Blake fic. Heh. I am glad you like this version of Ian, and thanks for implying that my stuff is always great. (((Hugs))) *, neat sig. Now I'm wondering who you are though, since I don't recognize the * from the WC board. 


	5. Dance Lessons

Once out of the vehicle, Pezzini took the arm Nottingham proffered, and they swept up the red-carpeted entrance. The canopy overhead was red as well, with The Marimba in gold script across the front. It looked like the exterior of every other swanky club in New York City, she was slightly disappointed to note. So much for the 'fabulous atmosphere' the newspaper had raved about.  
  
Sara could hear the buzz from the people waiting in line, as they wondered who the dark-haired couple might be. It was fun really, watching the doorman scramble to open the door for them like they were rock stars. A steady diet of this would probably make her cranky, but for tonight it was part of the magic.  
  
Once past the frosted glass doors, the atmosphere that had been missing from the exterior showed up in spades. Filled with mahogany woodwork, burgundy flocked velvet wallpaper, chandeliers dripping crystal flame, and a single mirror covering one entire wall, the place felt like an old world ballroom. The staff even wore dark wine formal evening dress, identifiable only by the uniformity of color and cut.  
  
The lessons started at eight o'clock, which wasn't for another fifteen minutes. Sara and Ian wandered arm in arm around the interior to fill the time. Nottingham wanted to know where all the exits were, which was fine with her. Pezzini found that kind of information useful too. Besides, she wanted to make sure she knew where the bathroom was.  
  
It took them the better part of ten minutes to wander the edge of the club. They both noted the staff entrances, emergency exits, coatroom, and the bathrooms. There were two sets of restrooms, Sara was pleased to discover, one on each end of the ballroom.  
  
After the circuit had been completed, Ian was able to relax a bit. He was so strongly conditioned to know his surroundings that he was unable to come down off high alert without having a layout. He wanted to let that tension go, as much as he was able, so he could focus on being with the woman of his dreams.  
  
"Shall we find a place on the dance floor?" Ian inquired, glancing over the couples that were already lining up.  
  
"Certainly. I can't wait; I've wanted to learn how to do this since I was a little girl. Every year I watch the dance troupes during the Latin Festival, I've just never gotten up the nerve to try it." Sara's eyes were sparkling with excitement.  
  
"I am honored you have chosen to share this experience with me." Ian let her lead the way to the dance floor. Sara was so jazzed that he had trouble keeping up, even with his longer legs.  
  
He found her comment surprising; Nottingham would never have thought that Sara was afraid to try anything. It was also a startling reminder of the neighborhood she grew up with, something that was easy to forget somehow. This was the first time she'd ever referred to her childhood. Maybe it upset her to discuss because her deceased father had been such a strong presence during that part of her life?  
  
He should have realized that she would have been exposed to the dance on a cultural level. The address was in her file; he'd even checked the area out. It would be hard to miss the Latino influence. It bothered Ian that he had not made the connection. Clearly, he still had a great deal to learn about the complex woman on his arm. Nottingham was looking forward to the experience.  
  
"Is it just me, or are we underdressed?" Ian leaned down to murmur in her ear as they joined the glittering throng. Several of the outfits were beaded and sequined to a fare-thee-well; even the men's clothes were not immune to embellishment. Nottingham felt downright conservative in his white shirt.  
  
"I think the guy in the starburst pants is checking you out." Sara grinned up at Ian cheekily. Most macho guys were homophobic; she could make Jake twitchier than a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs with a comment like that.  
  
Pez did not approve of the attitude; she could not abide bigotry, so she tweaked McCarty about it whenever she could. Part of her wanted to wind Ian up, the other part hoped he was secure enough in his masculinity to take it in stride. If he wasn't, they were not going to get very far as a couple. Sara had several gay friends, and she wasn't ostracizing them for her new boyfriend.  
  
"Jealous?" Ian arched a brow. He didn't bother looking behind him to see whom she was referring to. He had seen Pezzini razz McCarty like this too many times to be taken in. Besides, a person's sexual preferences didn't bother him. Unless they wouldn't take no for an answer, but he was equally abrupt with the women as the men.  
  
"Maybe. He's kinda cute. Why are all the cute ones taken or gay?" Sara mock-pouted, glad to see that Nottingham was not freaking on her.  
  
"I'm sure I have no idea." Ian was upset. Since he was neither taken, nor gay, he must not be cute. His fragile ego was wounded by her casual words, however much he tried not to be.  
  
Sara recognized the frost in his tone and mentally backpedaled. Ooops, had she really been crass enough to imply that her date wasn't cute? 'Nice going, Pez. No wonder you don't get out much.' A sarcastic little voice pointed out.  
  
"You are not cute. You might have been cute as a little boy, but now that is definitely not the right word for you. Handsome, devastating, and gorgeous come to mind, but not cute." Sara put one hand on his chest; she couldn't help but notice the hard muscles under the soft cotton of his shirt. She tried not to let it distract her, but she savored the feeling nonetheless.  
  
"I...thank you, Lady Sara." Ian could hardly speak over the emotional whiplash. She had completely jerked his reality around with that statement. One moment he was miserable, the next he was floating with elation.  
  
He just couldn't get himself together enough to say anything else, even though he wanted to return the compliment and tell her how beautiful she was. Since he couldn't get his brain to string together a coherent sentence, he did the next best thing.  
  
Nottingham took the hand that Sara had laid on his chest in his own hand. He raised it to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss over her knuckles in tribute. He looked from her hand to her eyes and was suddenly drowning in two pools of jade. He thought he might be blushing again and hoped the dim lighting would hide the fact. 


	6. Caminar

Sara's breath caught as Ian's lips brushed over her hand, and the Witchblade warmed on her wrist. It was a soft, pleasant heat, like a summer afternoon. She was only dimly aware of it, as his touch had fanned the embers of a fire that had been ignited back in the limousine. This fire was considerably lower, and hotter. She really, really wanted him to kiss her.  
  
"Good evening everyone, my name is Carmelita, and I would like to thank you all for coming to my club. The Tango is a wonderful cultural and personal expression, one that I have the privilege of sharing with you all tonight." The woman spoke from the conductor's podium in front of the stage that was set up for the band.  
  
Sara growled low in her throat at the interruption. That was twice now. The next person who interrupted them was going to have to learn how to talk around four feet of supernatural metal.  
  
"For the next half hour, we will go over the basics of the dance. There are several moves, all with specific names, but do not let that overwhelm you. This is not a Fantasia, which is what we call a stage tango. There are no rigorous forms or patterns to obey. Do what is in your heart, and so be true to the dance," Carmelita continued, blissfully unaware of the smoldering resentment of one off-duty detective. Not that she would likely care, even if she were to know.  
  
Carmelita was tall and lean, like a greyhound, all long legs and sleek muscles. Her hair was black and confined in a French twist and her eyes were nearly as dark. She was very compelling, the kind of person you'd watch even if she were wearing a gunnysack.  
  
Tonight her dress was a screaming fire engine red, split to the thigh on both sides, with a halter neck. When she turned to step down from the podium, one could see the dimples just above where the buttocks began; it dipped so low in the back. Her heels matched the dress, and were four-inch slingbacks with ankle straps.  
  
"I'd freeze my tits off in that thing. Oh wait, she already has," Sara muttered bitchily as Carmelita walked along the stage, pausing to gesture to the employees waiting just beyond the audience.  
  
Ian glanced over at Sara, surprised by the catty comment. He hoped she wouldn't turn that anger toward him, he had proven to be ill equipped to deal with her cutting wit. Was she cross because the woman had interrupted their moment of rapport? That was an interesting idea, and it fit in with the little growl Sara had given when the woman began speaking. Well, well, maybe he wasn't doing to badly with his first date after all.  
  
The burgundy-clothed staff began to filter into the dance floor, obviously there for coaching assistance, as a man in a black suit with the same screaming red trim joined Carmelita on stage. He was only a few inches taller than his dance partner, but far more solidly muscled. They stood facing each other, close enough to touch, and energy crackled between them.  
  
"The first thing to know about the Tango is that it is about passion. It was born in the taverns and dance halls of displaced nationals in Argentina. It was a way for them to express themselves in an oppressive environment. Over time the Tango has spread to the rest of the world, without straying far from its origins. The most basic step, and perhaps the one you will be most familiar with, is the caminar."  
  
Carmelita and her partner joined hands in the classic dance pose and began the distinctive walk, ball of the foot touching before the heel, torso and leg moving together for balance. It was a walk immortalized in countless movies. Feeling confident that they could handle this much, couples all around the dance floor joined in.  
  
Nottingham and Pezzini clasped their right hands together and turned sideways, the left arms going to waist and shoulder respectively. Ian wanted to relax and enjoy the feel of her in his arms, but couldn't. Sara was stiff and her eyes still sparkled dangerously. She was angry enough that he felt like he was holding on to a tigress.  
  
Sara moved into the caminar with a vengeance, trying to work off some of the frustration she still felt over the interruption. It felt like she was dragging a block of wood along with her. Pez tilted her head so she could look at her partner. Ian was tense, and there was a little frown line between his brows.  
  
Nottingham looked like he was expecting to be hit. Sara mentally sighed; Ian was a little too sensitive to her moods, and for some reason he blamed himself whenever she was upset. Granted, in the past she had been pretty horrible to him, but that was back when she thought he was a hired killer. Pez could not treat someone without respect for the law with respect; it went against everything she had been raised to believe.  
  
The fact that Sara had been attracted to him in spite of what he was had made her even meaner. If she could just be cruel enough to drive him away, or at least out of her line of sight, she could pretend that she felt nothing but hatred and disgust for the darkly handsome assassin. After all, Nottingham was the errand boy for Kenneth Irons, the most powerful and dangerous man in the city. They could be nothing to each other but enemies, forever and ever, amen.  
  
Over the past few months, Sara had begun to realize that it wasn't as simple as that. Nottingham did not belong in any of the neat cubbyholes she had tried to stuff him into. He was a very complicated and unique individual. No matter how hard Pezzini had tried to hate him, she could not. All the horrible things she said to push away all those softly worded offers, she didn't really mean.  
  
In an odd way, Pez came to rely on Nottingham. Oh, only on a professional level, of course. He had given her information, and she knew he occasionally ran interference for her, but that wasn't personal, right? Right. She had been slowly moving Nottingham from enemy to that nebulous grey area of sometime ally, but one with his own agenda. She didn't trust him any further than she could see him, but he was reliable in his own way.  
  
Pezzini told herself it was like the relationship she had with her informants, only to have that neat little wall of denial that she had constructed come down with a tremendous crash. Was it only yesterday? So much had happened in so short a time, perhaps it was to be expected that each would fall back on old patterns.  
  
"This I've done about a million times as a kid." Sara gave him a lopsided smile as they moved across the dance floor. Opening up and telling him something personal was the only thing Pez could think to do to show Nottingham that she was not angry with him. It was an offering of sorts.  
  
"All that practice has clearly paid off," Ian relaxed and smiled down at her. So, it had been the interruption making her cross. It was reassuring to know that Sara wanted to maintain their connection.  
  
"So how much practice went into yesterday's performance?" Sara really wanted to know the answer; she had a hard time believing she had misread Ian so completely. He just hadn't seemed like the type.  
  
"About five hours." Ian sighed. It had seemed like forever at the time. He was amazed he didn't have chafe marks.  
  
"Five hours? You were that good after just five hours?" Sara choked, clearly disbelieving. He had to be the quickest study she had ever heard of.  
  
"Thank you for saying so, but I still feel I could have used more time. I had more to learn." Ian didn't tell her how much of the choreography he had abandoned because he was not comfortable with it.  
  
"If you'd been any better at it, I'd have needed a cigarette, and I don't smoke." Sara gave a naughty little smile.  
  
Ian did not know what to say. He still had trouble believing what he had done. When he looked back on the strip tease he had performed in Sara's office, it was almost like he had been someone else. He imagined it was how an actor might feel about a performance. Nottingham had certainly gotten caught up in the persona and moment, taking liberties he would normally have never dared, nor dreamed Sara would permit. Let alone encourage.  
  
Nottingham still wasn't sure how to cope with the side of his personality that had been given free reign for that short span of time. He had never been encouraged to explore his sexuality. Before yesterday, he would not have thought he had it in him. Now he knew that it was there, but he didn't have any idea what to do with it. He hoped Sara would be willing to help him with that. 


	7. Calesita

"You are all doing well, now let's try a turn. This is called a molinete, or grapevine step. One foot steps behind, like so," Carmelita executed a graceful turn.  
  
Warmth at her wrist was the only warning Sara had as the Witchblade pulled her into a vision. It wasn't as intense as previous experiences, it seemed like the scene she was watching had been laid over reality. She was vaguely aware of the explanations and demonstrations coming from the couple on stage, their voices changed to carry the timber of a voice dead for at least forty years.  
  
Elizabeth Bronte, American spy during the Second World War, had loved dancing as much as Sara. Granted, at the time it was much more formal than the primal gyrating that went on at the clubs nowadays, but the joy in the movement was the same. The two pages of reality suddenly touched, and Sara knew everything Elizabeth did about the Tango.  
  
It was a place very like this that Elizabeth had met a dashing English spy using the name Kurt Wagner. Kurt bore a striking resemblance to Ian, especially with his face clean-shaven. He had managed to work his way up the ranks in Hitler's organization to the personal assistant to one of his research and development heads.  
  
Elizabeth had not known the name of his superior, mistakenly believing it to be unimportant. She was just to be his contact for one night, him passing her dangerous information under the cover of a dance. An evening of dancing and flirting, ending with a night of stolen pleasure flashed before Sara's eyes. It was a one shot thing; neither thought they would see the other again.  
  
They might not have, the war and their occupations being what they were, except that evening Elizabeth caught the eye of Kurt's superior. Becoming his mistress made her much more useful to the cause than being a courier. Sara shied away from the rest of the information coming to her; she did NOT want to see that.  
  
"Sara, are you all right?" Ian asked softly, he could see the Witchblade glowing on her wrist. The faint red gleam was more noticeable in the dim lighting. Afraid they would start to attract notice, Nottingham laid his hand over the Gauntlet, forgetting that he was not wearing his gloves.  
  
The Witchblade did not punish him for his impunity, as it had countless other males who had been so bold. It seemed to feel his concern, for the gem dimmed under his touch and released Sara from its mental grasp.  
  
"I'm fine, just another vision. This is one pushy piece of jewelry, let me tell you," Sara glanced down at her wrist. Ian's hand still covered the stone in a gesture that looked completely natural.  
  
This was an unexpected bonus to their relationship. Sara had someone to talk to about the Witchblade that wouldn't think she was crazy. Pezzini had felt the urge to share with her partner, Danny Woo, but never could quite bring herself to do it. He was her best friend, and she was afraid to test their relationship that way. He would probably understand, but what if he didn't?  
  
"What did the Witchblade show you?" Ian was back on high alert, eyes searching the area for any possible threat.  
  
"Let's just say it gave me a dancing lesson." Pezzini hedged, having no intention of telling him everything the Gauntlet had shown her. She didn't want to bring up Kenneth Irons just now, because then they'd have to deal with his possible reaction to what they were doing. That was a can of worms she'd rather open another day.  
  
"Does this mean that you know how to Tango now?" Ian knew she wasn't telling him everything, but he was used to that. At least they were not in immediate danger.  
  
"Actually, yes it does." Sara didn't actually remember the names for everything, there were a surprising number of specific terms, but she remembered the moves. She also knew that at it's most basic, the Tango was public foreplay, a battle of the sexes that could only be described as a win/win situation. A wicked little grin played around her lips at the thought.  
.  
"Its popularity in France assured the Tango's place in the ballrooms of the rich, despite its more risqué moves, like the enganche." Carmelita wrapped her leg around her partner's thigh. It was a move Sara highly approved of.  
  
"Now we're cooking with gas." Sara purred, imitating the woman on stage. The feel of Ian's hard thigh under hers went far to bring Carmelita back in Pez's good graces.  
  
Nottingham trembled at the unfamiliar sensation, a strange tension pooling low in his abdomen. He had worked very hard to keep a tight rein on the sensualist hiding under his skin, not knowing what was appropriate when. That binding had been fraying since Sara had opened the door to her apartment tonight, and this latest intimacy was his undoing.  
  
Pezzini had a feeling she had gone too far somehow. Ian's eyes had become drowning dark, his lids half closed. It was a hungry, predatory look. His hands changed on her, just a subtle shift, but it was amazing how much a few inches could change intent. The hold that had been supportive was now a statement of possession.  
  
Sara raised her chin in defiance, even as her leg slid along the length of his on its return to the floor. She did not belong to him, and he was out of his mind if he thought she did. He had not earned the claim he was staking, not yet.  
  
Carmelita and her partner concluded the lesson and thanked everyone again for coming. Neither Sara nor Ian heard a word of it, lost in the challenge issued.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
A new song began, filling the tense silence between the two. Sara whirled away with the music, the three step turn putting her about two feet away from Ian. She stopped in the open space, one hand on her hip, and the other flat on her thigh. She tilted her head up and slightly to the side haughtily. The challenge was plain, 'Come and get me if you dare.'  
  
Nottingham paused as she moved away, his brain playing catch-up with his libido. He literally ached with desire. He had lost control for a moment, something he simply did not do. It was glorious and terrifying at the same time.  
  
Ian had felt her instinctive rejection just before she moved away, and feared that he had frightened or disgusted her with his lack of restraint. That idea quickly died when he met her eyes as she stood just out of reach. Her gaze smoldered with a heady mix of desire and defiance.  
  
He recognized the stance; it was a classic opening posture that set the tone for a challenge dance. Rather like, dare he say, throwing down the gauntlet. Ian felt his lips curl upward slightly at the pun. It would appear that the Witchblade had truly taught Sara the Tango, right down to the more subtle nuances. This could prove to be a very interesting addition to the evening.  
  
Ian circled her still form, putting the hunger she inspired in him into his motion. His steps matched the beat, steady and strong. He let his eyes wander appreciatively and possessively over her form. The dress hugged her curves as lovingly as he'd like to, showing off a sleekly muscled physique.  
  
He would have preferred to have the circle be tighter, so he could brush against all that gloriously exposed flesh, but it was to soon for that. If he crowded her too much this early on, Sara was not above showing how she gained all that muscle. Ian did not want to be punched for being to forward; he'd seen how hard she could hit.  
  
As he finished the circle he gave an amague, or aggressive flourish, directed at the rest of the dance floor. If there was anyone fool enough to challenge his right to this woman, he'd better show his colors now. No one came forward. In fact, there was a rather large bubble of space between them and the other dancers.  
  
Ian nodded in satisfaction. His left hand came up to arc over his head, while his right settled on his hip in imitation of hers. He could feel her eyes moving over him and paused, letting her look her fill.  
  
The next beat in the music had them both moving forward. They brushed by each other, heat igniting anywhere they made contact. Both turned sharply, the beat calling for a stamp of the foot they had lifted off with to spin, which they did. They were only inches apart. Ian stepped forward and Sara stepped back. Then she took the step back, and it was his turn to retreat. Nottingham stepped forward again, not willing to relinquish the lead to her. Through it all they maintained that little artificial distance.  
  
Sara turned as if to flee, one arm conveniently cast backward for him to catch, which he did. Ian's grip was just below her elbow. She spun into his grip, letting her weight fall onto him so they were a single solid line from chest to the lone ankle resting just inside his. Her other leg was raised behind her, bent upward at the knee.  
  
Neither could believe how good the other one felt. Ian purred; his head tilted down to stare into the emerald source of the flames that burned him so sweetly. Sara could feel that soft rumbling all the way down to the pool of heat in her lower abdomen. They stood frozen in the small eternity of the break in the music. The tension between them continued to rise until the rhythm picked up again.  
  
Nottingham's feet followed the beat without letting go of the treasure in his arms. He walked in a small circle, Sara revolving with him on the ball of her foot in a calesita. Once the turn had finished, she swung her raised foot down and forward, sweeping his forward leg. He was forced to step back, and then again as she continued the llevada, clearly enjoying her moment leading.  
  
Sara moved them about five feet before the music changed and Ian took the lead back from her, moving them in a mirror image of the way they had come. There was a pause in the music, halting their momentum. Taking advantage of the moment, Sara executed a media vuelta, or half turn, away from Ian.  
  
He caught the beginning of her move and echoed it, although he drew the line at doing the kick with her. Nottingham did not want to chance splitting out his pants doing a pastada, which would certainly bring the evening to a premature end. Once her leg returned to the ground, he pulled her back into their former position.  
  
Ian spun on one foot in an enrosque, the other hooking behind. Sara followed his coiling turn, letting him take them in a new direction. She smiled; the beat had taken on a light, playful tone. It seemed perfect for ocho milongueros, a criss-cross walking step. They covered a good bit of the dance floor before the music changed tone again.  
  
This time, they both performed the media vuelta in the same direction and dropped into the caminar. The two strutted as far along the dance floor as the beat allowed before the cut that seemed perfect for a dip. Ian looked deep into her eyes and lowered his head. The world fell away, leaving only the two of them.  
  
Sara watched as his lips descended toward hers. She was finally going to find out how he tasted. She wanted slide her lips against his, to see if they were as soft as she remembered them being against her fingers, to nibble that full, almost pouty lower lip, and to slide her tongue past the barrier of his teeth in a mutual exploration. She could feel his last exhalation of breath, then their lips touched lightly.  
  
"Ah, amore. I do hate to interrupt, but the house rules are clear. No groping, no kissing."  
  
The voice was an annoying buzz at the edge of his perception. Ian was tempted to ignore it, but Sara had stiffened in his arms. The moment was clearly over. Now that he was focusing, he realized the voice belonged to the owner, Carmelita. With reluctance he straightened, bringing Sara up with him. He let go; she was practically vibrating with anger.  
  
Releasing Sara turned out to be a mistake. She rounded on the woman who had interrupted them, her breath coming out in a sharp hiss.  
  
"That's three," was all Sara said before her fist curled and her arm drew back.  
  
A/N: Thanks to all my reviewers! Sorry this has taken so long to post, but I'm an idiot. I've been updating at Connections and my homepage, but somehow forgot to put it up here. *hangs head sheepishly* On the bright side, you got two chapters all in one lump, right? I hope you think so anyway. Scifigirl and Thelma-hopefully the visuals this chapter made up for the interruption in the last one. Moon, if you'd update AQOT a little more often, you wouldn't have time to pace. (hint hint) Flamedancer, thanks! Cheers Darlin, know what you mean. Pass the lighter back this way when you're done. *grin* Rishtalak- now that I know your other sig, I will watch for you over there too. 


	8. Ochos

All the tension that had been building over the course of the evening roiled up through Sara's frame, ready to explode with delicious violence. She might have held it in, but when she turned to face the woman who had interrupted them, Carmelita was ogling her date's butt. It was the last straw. She had had enough. Her fist shot forward, ready to rearrange that bitch's face.  
  
Nottingham was suddenly between the two women. He moved so fast he seemed not to move so much as just appear. Anyone who blinked had missed the swift motion. Those who had not were not sure what they'd seen. That kind of speed bordered on the supernatural. A ripple of unease passed through the onlookers.  
  
Ian could feel the attention and cursed inside his head. So much for a discreet testing of the relationship waters before risking Kenneth's anger. He'd be lucky indeed if this little dust-up didn't come to Irons attention. Nottingham could only hope that no one would recognize him, dressed as he was. If any of them did, they would delight in telling Kenneth the little on dit.  
  
He caught Sara's fist in his palm. Nottingham had to minimize the gossip potential, and striking the owner of a very prominent new club would put them on the front of the society page. That Irons would see for himself over breakfast. Ian would likely be toast by the end of Kenneth's grapefruit.  
  
Sara looked up in shock. She hadn't seen him move, but somehow he had gone from being beside her to being in front of her, capturing a punch that had laid men out in the boxing arena.  
  
If it hurt him, he didn't let it show. Nottingham's face was calm, neutral, blank. Only his eyes gave anything away. There was a slight flinching that told her he was terribly uncomfortable with the situation. Sara realized that as much as Ian stayed in the shadows, being thrust into the middle of a scene must be very hard on his nerves.  
  
Well too bad for him. She wasn't worried what a bunch of strangers thought of her, and she didn't care if they watched while little miss can't- mind-her-own-business got what was coming to her. It would probably be very educational for them.  
  
"Let go." Sara growled as she tested his grip with a small tug.  
  
"I do not believe that would be wise." Ian had looked deep into her eyes before speaking. He could see that she was still very angry, and so opted to keep hold of her fist. He would also keep a weather eye out for any other flying appendage. One hand held did not a captive make, especially if that limb belonged to Sara Pezzini.  
  
"I don't care what you think Nottingham, let me go. Now!" Sara barked at him like he was a rookie at a crime scene.  
  
"How can you ask that of me? I do not want to ever let you go." Ian said softly, but sincerely, deliberately misunderstanding her statement. He had noted that he had been relegated back to 'Nottingham', a sure sign he was no longer in Sara's good graces, but he had to try anyway  
  
"Then we are going to have one Hell of a problem when I need to go to the bathroom." Sara knew the humor was inappropriate, but couldn't help it.  
  
The joking was a defense mechanism, a way for Sara to distance herself when she started to get too involved in something. Pezzini did not want to examine the mingled joy and fear she had felt at Ian's statement, so she made light of his declaration. All cops did it, especially when something hit close to home, leading those on the outside to think them insensitive and crass.  
  
Sara could see the reproach in those dark brown eyes. She shifted her weight slightly; ready to give Nottingham a good kick, anything to get away from the guilt rising in her. He looked like a puppy again, one that she had struck. Pez hated that look; it made her feel like she was a heartless bastard. The sensation made her defensive and, surprise, surprise, angrier.  
  
"If your hot-tempered little friend wants a piece of me, let her try to take it." The cause of their altercation purred condescendingly into the silence.  
  
"There would be no 'try' involved. I can mop the floor with you." Sara curled her lip, anger redirected back where it belonged. The dancer might have her for reach, but that was hardly new to her, she regularly boxed with men who were at least Carmelita's height.  
  
"Ladies, please," Ian broke in, trying to be the voice of reason.  
  
"Pretty big talk for someone who's hiding behind their boyfriend." Carmelita said at the same time.  
  
"I am not hiding, I'm being restrained, for which you should be eternally grateful," Sara pulled harder, twisting her wrist to try and break Ian's hold, as she spoke. She wasn't getting anywhere, his grip was very firm, but she continued her efforts anyway.  
  
"Remind me to be terrified," the retort was worthy of any school ground, but the smooth, cultured tone of the speaker elevated it to a whole new level of contempt.  
  
"You are not helping," Ian said as he glanced over his shoulder at Carmelita, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice.  
  
"Why should I? She was going to attack me for enforcing the house rules, and it's 'my' house."  
  
"Oh please. You cut in because you're hot for 'my' man." Sara laid as strong an emphasis on the same word as her opponent had. If intimidation wouldn't work, she'd try mockery and imitation.  
  
"Que?" the word was filled with wounded innocence.  
  
"I saw you staring at his ass." Sara shot back with venom.  
  
"I can hardly deny that he is muy macho," Carmelita let her eyes rove over Ian again before continuing, "but surely looking is not a trespass worthy of such ire."  
  
Sara could not speak around her irritation. The damn woman had just looked Ian over like he was some prize stud. Pez was vaguely surprised Carmelita hadn't asked to see his teeth. Her eyes narrowed as her glare kicked up a notch. Looks might not be reputed to kill, but Sara was willing to try until she could get her fist back from Nottingham.  
  
"Unless... he is not truly yours?" Carmelita arched a brow in speculation.  
  
"Oh, he's mine all right." Sara's tone was dry. Carmelita was barking up the wrong tree with that one, the man practically lived on her fire escape. She though about all the times she'd tried to get rid of him, and failed. No, he was hers whether she liked it or not.  
  
It wasn't her fault if she had only recently decided that might not be a bad thing. Sara had hardly had five minutes peace to think in since they met, just before the shoot-out at the museum. Not exactly quality personal time...Nottingham's seemingly blind devotion to the wishes of his employer, coupled with his annoying tendency to answer her in riddles, had not helped clarify the matter any either.  
  
"Hmmm. Let's test that theory, shall we?" Carmelita smiled up at Ian seductively.  
  
"What did you have in mind?" Sara asked suspiciously, giving up freeing her wrist to step forward, moving as far between Ian and Carmelita as she could. 


	9. Bailar Duello

"A bailar duello, with the winner to receive the kiss I interrupted." Carmelita issued her challenge without taking her eyes off Nottingham. Her stare was predatory, as if she were wondering how he'd taste.  
  
"Not good enough. I'll get that kiss tonight anyway at some point, even if I have to wait until he sees me to my door." Sara shrugged nonchalantly, although she was seething internally. That hussy wasn't getting her lips anywhere near Ian.  
  
"Conceited much?"  
  
"I prefer the term confident."  
  
"I just bet you do. That, of course, is why you are trying to weasel out of taking the bet. You're just so confident."  
  
"Actually, I am. It really boils down to the question, why should I waste our time on your attempts to horn in?" Sara started to cross her arms, but Ian still had hold of her fist, so he ended up being drawn up against her back.  
  
The look wasn't as threatening as Sara had intended it to be. However, his arm wrapped around her chest did create a certain solidarity, and she was content with the trade off.  
  
"What's the matter, afraid you'll lose, compadrito?" Carmelita taunted. She didn't care for the way the other woman seemed to fit in the dark-haired man's arms.  
  
"To you? That'll be the day." Sara snorted contemptuously.  
  
"Then where's the problem?"  
  
"There's no problem, I just want to know what I get when you lose."  
  
"Not that I believe that will happen, but what do you want?"  
  
"I want you to leave us alone. No more comments, no cutting in, no ruining any more moments. Deal?" Sara held out her free hand to shake on the bet.  
  
"Deal." Carmelita took the hand, vaguely surprised by the feel of calluses. They did not match up to the rest of the packaging.  
  
"Don't I have any say in this?" Nottingham looked at the two women who were preparing to divide him like the spoils of war.  
  
"No," both women said together.  
  
Ian let go of Sara's fist before he gave in to the temptation to squeeze and stepped back. The pleasure of being so close to his lady had faded to ashes in his mouth. He was not an object to be fought over and parceled out to the victor. He was a person with thoughts and feelings, both of which they were disregarding.  
  
He had thought that Sara, of all people, would understand how it felt to be given no say. She had railed against both Kenneth and the Witchblade's interference in her life often enough. Yet here she was, agreeing to give him to another woman if her dancing skills proved superior.  
  
Sara and Carmelita backed away from Ian, one on either side, neither turning their back on the other. Both swayed slightly as they walked, bodies already answering the rhythm of the song that had been playing during their discussion and subsequent challenge. They kept moving until he was equidistant from both women, forming the final point on their triangle.  
  
Nottingham was still as a statue, a brooding, angry statue perhaps, but he waited where he stood. This was a duello, and it had strict forms to be followed. He wondered how much Sara knew about them. He did not know much about this version, aside from the history.  
  
Every time he had seen this challenge, it had been two men competing for the favor of one woman. Ian would just follow what he had seen from those other duels and hope that would be enough. At least this way, he did none of the pursuing, which would be up to the women. He was not pleased with either of them; they would both have their work cut out for them in trying to win his approval.  
  
Carmelita locked eyes with her opponent, realizing that she did not know her name, or the identity of the delicious man she wanted to steal away from her. Not that his name mattered so much, she could get that out of him later, but with any luck she wouldn't be seeing her opponent again after tonight, so she should find out that out now. "What is your name?"  
  
"Sara Pezzini."  
  
"Carmelita Boucher."  
  
"Any relation to Dominique Boucher?" Sara raised a brow. The coincidence was too much to be believed.  
  
"She was my mother, not that the Gorgon would have wanted me to admit it. It made her feel old. Why?"  
  
"I just don't hear the name often, I was curious." The bitterness and malice in Carmelita's voice reminded Sara of her last conversation with Dominique. Apparently, the apple didn't fall far from the tree.  
  
At the other end of the triangle, Nottingham closed his eyes and sighed. He didn't feel that he could lay all the blame for this situation with Sara anymore. The Witchblade had clearly influenced the entire evening. She was right; it was a pushy piece of jewelry.  
  
Hell, it had even gotten to him, because he had not done a check into the background of the club. Nottingham had never failed to investigate a situation thoroughly before entering, but he had done nothing in preparation for tonight besides getting the address.  
  
It was unforgivably sloppy of him. Ian knew that Dominique had a daughter; it was all in the files. He had even known her name. Shortly after Kenneth had dumped Dominique for her inability to truly wield the Gauntlet, she had married. Her husband, Armand Boucher, was a business rival of Irons. He owned several diamond fields in the Sierra Leone, as well as a few emerald mines in Columbia.  
  
The marriage hadn't lasted, of course. Dominique had only accepted Armand's proposal in an attempt to get even with Irons. If she hadn't gotten pregnant, they would have parted ways inside of a year. He also knew that after the divorce Dominique had left her daughter in her ex-husband's custody, making a name for herself in the world of fashion.  
  
The divorce settlement had gone a long way toward setting up her business. The daughter that she largely ignored had joined the competition dance circuit in her early teens, as hungry for recognition and fame as her mother. What he hadn't known was what Carmelita was doing now; the information packet on her had not been updated in two years.  
  
When it came up during his check, and it would have, he would have talked Sara into going somewhere else. Anywhere else. Because Dominique had gotten pregnant after wearing the Witchblade, Carmelita would inherit certain genetic changes from her mother. Those changes might make her a true bearer for the Witchblade, unlike Dominique.  
  
Three years ago Irons had arranged to meet Carmelita while on business in South America. Their encounter left him convinced that she had also received the same weaknesses as her mother, so he rejected Carmelita as a potential future Wielder. He had written her off without a second thought.  
  
It would appear that the Gauntlet did not share Kenneth's opinion. The Witchblade had orchestrated this entire event to bring Sara into conflict with the blood of a Pretender. Ian wasn't sure why. Was it testing Sara, or did it want something from Carmelita?  
  
Did this mean that Sara's feelings for him would evaporate after tonight? If the Witchblade had been responsible for her sudden change of heart, would she ever willingly have anything to do with him again? Would she go back to treating him with cruelty and disdain? 


	10. Parada

Pezzini did not have access to the information that Ian did, so she was totally surprised by the fact that Dominique had a daughter. She wondered if Carmelita knew that she had been the one to arrest her mother, and this was some weird revenge thing? She was sure that Carmelita hadn't visited Dominique in prison, Sara always checked back over the visitor logs when she signed in. All that proved though, was that Carmelita had not visited her mother, not that she didn't know where she was and why.  
  
Yet there was no sign of recognition in Carmelita's dark brown eyes, only the gleam of challenge and the confidence that she would be victorious. The look went far to allay Sara's suspicions, but there was still the sense that this encounter left far too much to coincidence to not have been orchestrated by someone...or some thing.  
  
Sara was aware of the steady warmth at her wrist. That damn bracelet was somehow involved in this; it was the only thing that made sense. Pezzini focused on the swirling red stone, trying to understand what the Witchblade wanted from her. The sooner she got this out of the way, the sooner she could get back to her date.  
  
The stone pulsed and gave Sara a flash of the 'running the gauntlet' dream, something she had not seen since those first few days after the Witchblade had come to her. So, this was a test of some kind. Pez curled one lip in annoyance. Was it too much to ask for the cursed bracelet to leave her alone for one night?  
  
She was getting very tired of being pushed into situations without being asked if it was something she wanted. The Witchblade flickered again, reminding her that Nottingham's reaction to being the prize in this little conflict had been more graceful. Sara raised her gaze from the softly glowing gem and gave Ian a look of apology. She was just as guilty as the Gauntlet of presumption.  
  
Nottingham read the apology in the softening of Sara's green eyes, and gave a small nod. He did not smile however, he was still not pleased about the arbitrary manner he had been roped into this competition, and he wanted her to know it.  
  
Pezzini got the message, loud and clear. So, she was going to have to pass some test for the Witchblade, beat Carmelita in a dance contest, and somehow get back in Ian's good graces. Well, never let it be said that Sara Pezzini backed away from a challenge.  
  
Sara tossed her head and took the first step, ready to kick ass on three fronts. She started with a caminata, a hip-swaying, provocative walk, to Ian's side. Pez circled, her eyes appreciatively cataloging the well- muscled frame that he usually kept hidden under layers of loose fitting black garments. It was a deliberate imitation of their previous dance; and they both knew it.  
  
She was trying very hard to recapture the earlier atmosphere, wanting that spine tingling awareness of each other back. Sara could only hope it was working, knowing how put out Ian was over the whole thing. She stopped in front of Nottingham, letting him see her approval of his appearance, and the desire it sparked, in her eyes.  
  
Nottingham maintained his façade of studied indifference, despite his appreciation of Sara's tactics. She was working to bring them back to the connection they had shared during their first dance, and to remind him of intimacy interrupted.  
  
It was working better than he let on, but he wanted her to really sweat this. Perhaps it was petty of him, but Nottingham wanted this lesson to stick. He was tired of being ordered around as if he had no feelings of his own. Irons had been doing it for as long as Ian could remember, and the treatment left him resentful and quietly rebellious.  
  
Hence tonight's little deviation from the Kenneth Irons game plan. Ian was doing something for himself for once. He knew that a world of trouble lay in wait for him, should Irons find out about his activities, but he just didn't care. Especially with Sara doing her best to seduce him.  
  
Ian could feel himself thawing as Sara swayed in front of him, giving him flirtatious glances from the corner of her eye. He had intended to hold out for longer, but when she began her second circle of him, it was done at very close range. She brushed against him at odd moments, keeping him on edge. It was more distracting than full body contact would have been, his whole body alert and waiting for that next whisper of touch.  
  
As she completed the circle, a hard arm shot out and caught Sara around the middle. Pez returned the gesture, so that they were a little to the side of each other in a close 's'. They turned together, their bodies once again in tune with each other. Rich brown orbs met emerald green in silent communion. This was what they both wanted, to be in each other's arms, their earlier disagreement forgotten under the electric contact of flesh.  
  
Tension rose between the cop and assassin without regard for their occupations, obligations, or intentions. Tonight they were just a man and a woman, at once simpler and more complex than their daytime personas.  
  
So lost were they in one another that the sudden presence of Carmelita came as a shock. The other woman stepped into the end of the turn, her foot coming forward in a sacada to force Sara to step with her. That opened her out and away from Ian's torso. A second sacada, and Carmelita was standing in Sara's original spot, just facing the opposite direction.  
  
The edge of the red skirt clung to the fabric of Ian's trousers almost as tightly as Carmelita did. She wasn't trying to be subtle, she wanted to wipe that connection her rival had made away, and imprint the feel of his body on hers. He was just as hard muscled as he looked, no well-camouflaged fat on this frame. Boucher purred softly at this discovery, making sure her face held approval and heat when the turn brought them face-to-face  
  
Sara was fuming over Carmelita's blatant actions. Surely her mother had told her that touching things that belonged to Pezzini earned you a broken wrist. She stepped forward, her face like thunder and hands flexing with the urge to commit some mayhem.  
  
Carmelita could see her over Ian's shoulder, and she deftly executed a spin, taking her dark-haired prize with her. She did a media vuelta and dropped slightly, bringing the two of them into a caminar. They strutted across the dance floor, leaving Sara in their wake.  
  
Boucher was glad to have someone close to her height for the distinctive walk, as it made matching strides easier. It also made things easier in the bedroom. She smiled lasciviously at the thought and cast a glance over to her partner.  
  
Nottingham had not missed a moment of the byplay between Sara and Carmelita, and he was soaking up Sara's jealousy like a sponge. Images of her intertwined with that worthless musician, Conchobar, passed through his mind. He relaxed into the young Boucher's arms, content for the moment to let her lead. Let Sara find out what it was like to be on the outside for once.  
  
Sara used a combination of molinete turns and forward ochos to cut across the middle of the dance floor, angling to intersect with the pair. She was actually going to end up slightly behind them, but once she was that close, catching up would be easy.  
  
Carmelita saw a flash of green from her adversary's dress from the left, and realized what she was doing. A subtle tensing and a light tug brought the pair up from the caminar into an abrazo. The standing face-on hold was perfect for changing direction, and Boucher had every intention of going back the way they came, leaving Sara stranded on the floor alone again.  
  
She wasn't fast enough. Sara's angle brought her in behind Nottingham as they took the first step back. It was a classic parada, or sandwich stop. Carmelita tried to take the momentum back and continue, but Sara settled her hands over hers and followed in a lock step with them.  
  
The three moved two paces in the trabada before Sara struck, her grip shifting on Carmelita's. She moved for the pressure point holds, using pain compliance techniques to peel Boucher's hands up and off of Ian. It was, perhaps, dirty pool, but no less efficient for that.  
  
Sara flung Carmelita's hands outward, giving her precious seconds in which to grab Nottingham's shoulders and turn him around. She moved into him as he turned, her body flush with his. Pezzini wasn't going to run with her interception, unlike some people.  
  
Nope, Pez was going to push this along to the confrontation stage right now. She slid down his torso in a sentada, hands trailing behind her. The feel of hard muscle under soft cotton gave way to the rougher texture of Nottingham's waistband as she continued to sink lower.  
  
Just as her palms passed over his hipbones, Ian grabbed her hands and hauled her back up. He couldn't believe what Sara was doing. The feel of her sliding down his body combined with having her face inches from his groin were all too much for his fraying control. He had to move her or disgrace himself. The pants were too snug to hide the kind of reaction Sara was eliciting.  
  
Sara followed the pull of his hands with a little feminine smile. Her sacada had the desired effect on Ian, his breathing was accelerated, a flush lay across his cheekbones, and his eyes glittered with hunger. They were pressed together again, her hands resting just above his heart, which was beating furiously.  
  
Their eyes locked, mutual desire silently expressed in that long moment. Contest forgotten, Carmelita forgotten, the only thing that mattered was the way they felt. His grip loosened at her wrists to slide down her arms to her waist. Ian's hands settled at the small of her back.  
  
A sharp hissing, like a nest of snakes, came from Sara's left. Both shifted toward the threatening sound. The source was Carmelita's hair. A cascade of serpents raised their heads to stare at the couple. Nottingham's broad back stiffened as he was caught in their mesmerizing gaze.  
  
With a cold smile, Carmelita gestured to the dark-haired man. Slowly, jerkily, Ian let go of Sara. His face was a near-perfect blank, only the ticking of a muscle in his jaw betrayed his internal struggle as he walked toward the young Boucher.  
  
Sara looked on in horror. There had been something about the way Carmelita moved and carried herself that reminded her of Dominique, but she had not really considered what else the Boucher bloodline might have passed on. Clearly, Carmelita was her mother's daughter in all respects.  
  
No one else seemed to notice though. There was no outcry from the couples gliding by; their attention to the scene was sheer curiosity over the progress of the bailar duello, and nothing else. Most likely they were applauding Nottingham's display of being torn between the two women, without knowing just how unfeigned his actions were.  
  
Carmelita stroked his cheek as Nottingham drew even with her. She glanced over at Sara, and leaned up to take the kiss and her victory. Pez wasn't aware of moving, but somehow she had taken the steps necessary to grab Boucher by the arm. She jerked Carmelita away from Ian before their lips could meet.  
  
The snakes hissed and snapped at the air in front of Sara's face, but could not seem to touch her. Nor did their gaze affect her the way it had Nottingham. Thanking heaven for small favors, Pezzini tightened her grip. The Witchblade responded to her anger, silver metal metamorphing from bracelet to brass knuckles.  
  
Carmelita dropped her gaze to the hand holding her, and found her attention caught by the shifting bracelet. The tendrils moved over Sara's wrist and hand like silver serpents, bringing back a flash of the dream Carmelita had the night her mother died. A great python, as thick as the trunk of a tree, had spoken to her. The snake had an aura of great age, it's slit eyes filled with forbidden knowledge, and it had called her 'daughter'.  
  
"Thus did the serpent offer to Eve the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and was accursed for it. How cruel a god, to punish a creature for that one act forever, with no chance of redemption." Carmelita whispered harshly.  
  
The gem in the Witchblade glowed a virulent shade of scarlet as heat shot up from Sara's wrist. The stone changed shape slightly, a little larger here, a bit tapered there, and suddenly it was a fruit. No. The fruit. This was the fruit of the Tree, the knowledge that had driven Man from the Garden of Eden.  
  
"The tree was smote by lightning, sending the branch the serpent lay coiled upon to the ground. The serpent was cursed to be trodden upon and reviled, forever associated with the knowledge of evil. The branch was taken by Eve, who used it as a walking stick during their flight from the anger of their God." Ian was free of the spell the snakes had bound him in, but he made no move to interfere.  
  
Nottingham finally understood what was going on, and why Irons had found nothing of interest three years ago. The power was hereditary, passing on only at death, much in the way of the Witchblade. Somehow the serpent was bound to the Blade, whether as a part of the instrument of the curse, or because it was the last Earthly remains of the Tree it had called home, he had no idea.  
  
"But through chance or design, the bolt struck the serpent as well as the branch, blood and sap commingling. Neither one was quite what they had been before; severed from Grace and left to make their way as best they could in an alien world. Is it so strange that the serpent should follow the branch borne by Eve?" Carmelita's eyes had changed as she spoke, the pupils splitting and the irises spilling over the white.  
  
"Somehow I suspect the serpent did more than merely follow." Ian was careful to focus on a point over her shoulder, not meeting any of the eyes that turned his way.  
  
"How could she not? Her essence was split, and she longed to be whole again, even more than she wanted to return to Eden. She took on a mortal semblance and taught the children of Adam many things that improved their lives. All she asked in return was that they smelt her lifeblood out of the branch and return it to her. She even taught them the process, but the ingrates betrayed her, making a weapon instead." The snakes were agitated by the story, lashing and snapping in counterpoint.  
  
"So when the Gauntlet was forged from the branch, part of the serpent's essence was bound within as well?" Nottingham asked, his voice filled with equal parts amazement and comprehension. Any gloating because he now knew something that Irons didn't, he kept tightly behind his teeth.  
  
"Yes. You're not just another pretty face, are you?" Carmelita purred appreciatively at his quick wit.  
  
"No, I am not," Ian's lips quirked. Now she appreciated him for his mind? Well, it wasn't as if they had had ten words discourse before this moment.  
  
"And neither are you." Sara cut in to their little history discussion. She was feeling like an outsider and didn't much care for it.  
  
"No, but you know what I am. You can feel it, hear the whispers of the past in your head, just like I do. Both our blood carries the ability to bear the weapon on your wrist, yours from the ancestress who ingested the leftover fragments from the forging and survived, mine from the blood of Medusa, daughter of Ceto." The gauntlet writhed as Carmelita talked, returning to the serpent form it had worn for Dominique. 


	11. Amague

~  
  
Sara stared down at the Gauntlet as its forked tongue tested the air. Carmelita was right in part; she did gain knowledge from the visions and voices granted by the Witchblade. She knew so much more now than she had when she had battled Dominique, and the things she had seen during their conflict were beginning to make sense the more Carmelita talked.  
  
Not that she was willing to take this little fairy tale completely on a few visions and faith, Pezzini had ever been the skeptic, though certain elements rang true enough. That didn't mean that she was just going to hand over the Witchblade to the first person with a good sob story.  
  
This whole, 'your ancestor did my ancestor wrong so you owe me' crap didn't wash with her. Sara thought it had to be the stupidest thing she had ever heard, and she heard it a lot. The inner city was full of people who thought the world owed them for the unsubstantiated suffering of their distant ancestry.  
  
They acted like someone else's suffering excused their behavior. To them, all the drugs, weapons, and violence were justified because of events that happened before they were even born. If Sara had a dollar for every time she heard that tired excuse trotted out when she caught someone, she could retire.  
  
"So what do you want?" Sara asked, her eyes narrowing.  
  
"Don't play ssstupid with me, Msss. Pezzini. I want what belongsss to me, of courssse." Carmelita's voice was more sibilant on the 's', but the condescension was unchanged.  
  
"Dominique had the Witchblade and couldn't keep it. When we met again, the Gauntlet chose me over her. What makes you think you have a snowball's chance in Hell of getting it if your dear mother couldn't?" Sara arched a brow.  
  
"She-who-bore-me had been...tampered with at a young age. A fair-haired bokkor came to Dominique before she had grown into Ceto's protections and twisted her. I suppose I should thank him, his contributions did give me something none of my predecessors had. I think one lifetime was an excellent trade for the changes the Witchblade wrought in my as-yet unborn form."  
  
Ian hissed in a breath at her revelation. His hands clenched as he struggled with the implications of the Gorgon in front of him. Not that he was surprised by the fact that she had basically called Kenneth an 'evil magician', but that Dominique was pregnant when she was still wearing the Witchblade. That could only mean one thing.  
  
Carmelita was not a Boucher at all. She was Irons get. Unless Dominique had already been fooling around with Armand? Ian allowed himself to hope that was the case. After all, the dark hair had to have come from somewhere.  
  
It did not, however, change the fact that the cellular alterations would have been so much easier in a zygote, who was largely unformed and just beginning to follow the codes in their D.N.A., than an adult woman, who was a completed form of their genetic blueprint.  
  
That was why the Periculum was so dangerous. There was always the chance that the Wielder's body could not adapt to the transformation. Yes, Carmelita did have a leg up in that regard. Combine it with her mingled bloodline, and she might very well be able to take, and wield, the Witchblade.  
  
Ian was officially in Hell.  
  
"So she was pregnant with you while she wore the Witchblade. Big deal, every other Wielder must have been too, or there wouldn't be any more of 'my' bloodline either." Sara snarked.  
  
"No Sara. It is almost always a sibling's offspring that inherits the potential to become the next bearer. Over time, the bloodline has branched; making it difficult to predict into which cadet line the Wielder will be genetically reincarnated." Ian bowed his head as he was forced to refute her.  
  
"Why a sibling?" Sara tilted her head; this was the most open Ian had been with her about the Witchblade since the right before her fight with Gallo. Was he trying to give her some obscure, but life saving if she figured it out, advice?  
  
"Most wielders do not live long enough to bear children once they take up the Gauntlet. Their life is one filled with danger and conflict, with little room for... relationships. Those close to her are usually without protection from the more supernatural elements that a Wielder must battle, and fall accordingly." Nottingham hated to bring up the subject, but felt that Sara deserved to know.  
  
"What?" the exclamation burst unbidden from Sara's lips. Any thought of pumping Nottingham for more information was driven out of her head by the flare of anger. "When were you planning to share that little piece of information with me? Were you waiting until someone else died?"  
  
"Is there anyone else? You lead a very insular life Sara. I've watched you, you have very few friends, and they are all better at protecting themselves than most." Ian gave a small smile at the thought of Vicki Po confronted by a supernatural being.  
  
She'd probably try to take it home with her. The poor creature wouldn't know what had hit it. Gabriel Bowman would manage to bottle it for resale. Since that was about it for friends, he'd say Sara was pretty safe on that front. Even if he were to extend that small circle out to include the widow Woo, the guardian spirit that her husband had become would make short shrift of anything fool enough to cross his family.  
  
"At least you had already chosen such a life before the Witchblade came to you. Not all Wielders have a martial background. The call to defend mankind usually brings a marked change in lifestyle. Jeanne du'Arc was one of the more noteworthy examples, but by no means the only one. A peasant lass has a difficult life, filled with labor day in and day out, but it is usually hunger alone that she must battle." Ian sighed.  
  
Sara was angry with him again. He supposed he should be glad she had left her gun behind, for he had a feeling Pezzini was not above shooting the messenger, not if that glare was anything to go by. 


	12. Barrada

"I'm amazed you were willing to risk coming out with me tonight, if I'm such a lightning rod for supernatural dangers, as well as destined to be Hell on relationships." Sara's eyes narrowed as she shot a green glare at Nottingham.  
  
She was really smarting from his 'Is there anyone else?' crack. He made her sound like some kind of social retard, unable to make or sustain close friendships.  
  
"Did I not point out that the few friends you have allowed yourself to have are better equipped to deal with such danger? Young Bowman knows more about the supernatural that perhaps anyone other than Irons in this city. Your other friends are all involved in law enforcement, and as such, are better armed than the average citizen, not to mention more aware of their surroundings." Ian said placatingly.  
  
"I notice you are ignoring the last part of my question." Sara's foot had been tapping with annoyance, but now it stopped.  
  
Ian found himself taking an involuntary step back. As long as she was giving her anger some outlet, Pezzini was unlikely to attack. It was the stillness that presaged violence with Sara, not agitation.  
  
He struggled with the urge to bow his head and take her wrath, knowing it for the conditioned response it was. Sara would run over him if he let her, her personality was so strong. The last thing he wanted to do was transfer himself from one domineering and abusive master to another. Which is what would happen if he showed any weakness now.  
  
"Not that we started out as friends, but I have covered your back every time you went out. Even when you did not see me, I was there. Take it as a compliment to your abilities that I very rarely had reason to come out of the shadows to assist you."  
  
"Yeah well, no offense, but I think you could have insulted my abilities a few times. I would have liked some back up you know." Sara grimaced. There had been a few occasions where she wasn't sure she was going to make it out of a situation alive.  
  
"For myself, I would have preferred to be at your side from the beginning, but that would not have been fair to you. You needed to learn that you could stand on your own two feet, that all the power and strength you could ever need comes from within yourself." Ian reached out and took the hand without the Witchblade in his. He raised it to his lips and laid a delicate kiss on the back of her hand.  
  
"I've always known that, it's just that it doesn't seem like enough sometimes. I know you've been there on those times when it wasn't. Irons told me you went against his orders and supplied me with Conchobar's ransom, so I even know about that. What I've never understood is why you hover on the fringe of my life, never getting close enough to truly see. If I hadn't figured out it was you yesterday, you would have never told me, and I can't understand why."  
  
"I needed you to want me for myself, not for what I could tell you about the Witchblade, not for the interference I could run for you with Irons, not for my martial abilities, but for me. Until yesterday I had no idea you held me in any kind of regard. I thought you hated me. The harsh words, the dismissive attitude, and the contempt I would see in your eyes..." Ian closed his eyes for a moment at the old pain.  
  
Sara watched the pain move over his face and winced. She had been a bitch, she knew she had been a bitch, and she would have continued to be a bitch. Pez didn't kid herself; she would have kept cutting Nottingham without a care for how his heart bled.  
  
"Saying I'm sorry doesn't seem like enough, but it's true. I am sorry for the way I treated you. I was pretty horrible." Pez tightened her hand in Nottingham's, trying to give silent support.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. You're a bitch. Not, I sssuspect, a big newsss flassh. Why don't you take a break from the persssonal drama and let me claim my prizzze. There is a matter of a kissss owed." Carmelita waved one hand dismissively at Sara, knowing it would infuriate her.  
  
"How about this for some late-breaking news? You're going down." Sara growled, quite willing to transform the guilt she was feeling over her treatment of Nottingham into a nice righteous wrath. If the wrath was tinged with the green of blinding jealousy over the idea of Carmelita laying those scaly lips on her man, well, no one not inside her head would have any way of knowing.  
  
Ian wisely kept silent. There was nothing he could add to this conversation that would defuse the situation. Next to him Sara was drawn up tight; even her hand in his was tense. Nottingham glanced between the two women, suddenly aware of the fact that he had somehow come to be partially between them. He stepped out of the line of fire and let go of Sara's hand. Times like this, a man was better to keep his mouth shut and get out of the way, for the cat fight was clearly about to get ugly.  
  
"In my own club, full of loyal employees? Not to mention all these witnesses, witnesses who are very susceptible to my influence? My, my, you certainly have a high opinion of yourself."  
  
"It's not an opinion, Queen of the Bad Hair Days, it's a fact." Sara stepped forward, eyes glittering in the dim light.  
  
The Serpent shape on her wrist shifted back to its normal gauntlet form as the emotional tidal wave smashed into it. The blade shot out with a metallic rasp and Sara raised it to the 'guard' position. She was going to give her the reunion with her ancestor's blood that Carmelita wanted all right. Pezzini was going to shove the Witchblade right through her heart and out her back. Surely that would be close enough to satisfy all parties involved.  
  
"Whatever." Carmelita's shrug was unconcerned, conveying without words that she was not impressed, although fear flickered through her eyes as she watched the Witchblade change forms. Somehow Sara had subverted her connection to her ancestress' blood. It was time for a strategic retreat.  
  
"Even if you managed to defeat me, and that's a rather large if, there would be a great deal of bad press for you, not to mention jail time. I think we all know what happens to police officers in prison." Carmelita smiled gloatingly, knowing she had the upper hand.  
  
"First, who said I was a cop?" Sara bluffed, as she looked around at the gracefully moving wall of dancers, terribly aware of how very 'in public' they were.  
  
It was worth hedging on the truth, as Carmelita had shown no sign of recognition earlier. Unless the Witchblade that had clued her in to Sara's identity, she might be basing her shot on Ian's comments during their conversation. That or the woman was an excellent liar, who had known all along who she was approaching.  
  
"Oh come now, Msss Pezzini, I could hardly forget the detective that sssent my mother off to prissson to die, even if we were not essspecially clossse." Carmelita purred with malice.  
  
Ah. That would be excellent liar. Pezzini's career could very well come to a grinding halt if she were to attack a high profile business owner, especially once the connection between mother and daughter was made.  
  
If Sara killed her rival, as her feelings were screaming for her to do, she would go to jail. Not since that night in the subway with Gallo had she felt so full of vengeful anger. It would be so easy to spit the bitch on the Witchblade. She had to grit her teeth against the emotional storm raging through her frame and think of the consequences of such an action.  
  
"Secondly, your little witnesses won't always be around, now will they?" Sara cocked an eyebrow, ignoring Carmelita's scornful reply more successfully than her own temper.  
  
"No, they will not, but sssuch lack of protection worksss both waysss. There will come a time when we will have our reckoning, you and I, and I think that time will be sssoon." Carmelita stepped back, letting a couple whirl between them. When the way was clear again, the young Gorgon was gone.  
  
"Yes, soon." Sara said to the empty air.  
  
A/N:  
Hello all. As Jen has already told you, I was in a four car pile-up on  
St. Pat's. I got off relatively easy, whiplash and a sprained thumb  
(from gripping the dashboard. I was bracing for impact. Stupid, yes?)  
They are saying six weeks minimum before the hand is back up to speed.  
So obviously, it's going to be a while between updates.  
At least my boss is letting me come to work, even though I can't  
really do any repairs like this. I'd be totally screwed financially if  
he'd told me to stay home until the doc gives me a clean bill of  
health. I can't saw or hold anything with my right hand.  
I never realized how many things I need my thumb to do, or how  
creative I can be when I need to get something done and there's no one  
around to help. (the saddest thing is watching me try to open anything  
that is supposed to twist off) I am typing one-handed, which seems  
terribly slow, but it's not like I'm doing anything else. Nor does it  
affect how long it takes you to read it. heh.  
I did have a very negative experience with my insurance provider,  
AIG. I had to argue with the insurance company for two hours just to  
get them to apply Blue Book value to my totalled out car, which  
they're supposed to do anyway, instead of wholesale value. Frelling  
sonsofbiscuits. Like I could replace my vehicle for that. I've changed  
my mind, politicians aren't the biggest crooks in America, the  
insurance companies are. I'm still going to owe on my car loan, but  
not as much as I would have.  
But hey, at least I'm alive. The guy in the car in front of us went  
through the windshield (that's windscreen for my pals across the pond)  
So wear your seatbelts my friends, cause you just never know.  



	13. Llevada

A/N: Thank you Sabine, Thelma, and Dragongrrl for your well wishes, sympathy, and commiserations on the evil that is car insurance. Flamedancer, I can't tell you if the WB will abandon Sara or not. That would be telling. LOL But I can tell you that Sara is short on knowledge because she keeps fighting the WB. She's probably the first Wielder to be so closed to the supernatural that the Blade is having a hard time connecting with her. SciFiGirl, thanks for the review. Glad you liked the challenge dance. CheersDarlin, yeah, my homepage has a LOT of the stuff I can't post here at FF.Net. Thanks for visiting, and for telling me you liked what you saw.  
  
Neither of them felt like dancing any more. Tonight's mixed bag of tender moments and aggressive confrontations had worn down both Wielder and Protector. By mutual consent they retired from the dance floor.  
  
Ian called Robert as the two slowly made their way toward the exit. He spoke in hushed tones, eyes searching the crowd for danger. He did not trust Carmelita, nor did he know her well enough to anticipate her next move. Nottingham wanted to be ready, no matter what it was, but he had a bad feeling that it would come when he least expected it. Serpents were most adept at blending with their surroundings.  
  
The limousine was pulling up to the curb as they were exiting the smoked glass double doors. The walk to the car was tense, Ian not liking the limited mobility afforded by the long line of people still waiting to get into the club. It felt like they were walking a gauntlet, and the first blow could come at any minute.  
  
Nottingham was on high alert, watching for the first hostile movement. The sound of raised voices came from behind. Both half-turned, sure they were about to be attacked, but the shouting was not directed at them.  
  
"Do you know who I am? I'll have your job if you don't let my niece in!" A man dressed in an off-the-rack black suit was up in the doorman's face while his date hovered behind him, looking nervous.  
  
'The niece' also looked about seventeen. She was a hard seventeen maybe, but still clearly underage, and most likely a prostitute. The heavy makeup and miniscule dress were dead giveaways.  
  
"No id, no admittance. That's the rules. Take your underage chippie somewhere else." The doorman did not sound in the least moved by the ranting of the older man. In fact, he looked bored. It was a scene repeated an awful lot, if his expression was anything to go by.  
  
Ian was surprised by the peals of laughter that came from the woman at his side. Even more shocking was the way Sara was leaning against him companionably as she did so. Whatever else that happened, for good or ill, this lowering of barriers was worth every second.  
  
"Just what is so funny?" Nottingham felt compelled to ask as he savored the feel of her against his side.  
  
"It's nice to see that some things never change, no matter how much weirdness you have going on in your life." Pezzini explained, still chuckling intermittently. It was a small release of tension, and she welcomed it.  
  
"Ah." As much as Ian was enjoying Sara's mirth, he couldn't share in her enjoyment.  
  
His instincts were screaming that the scene with the doorman was a ruse, meant to distract from the real attack. Nottingham turned back toward the limousine, which was idling at the curb. A valet was holding the door open patiently. The scene was perfectly normal, and yet...there was something that niggled at the back of his brain.  
  
Perhaps it was because the streetlight overhead did not penetrate far into the open vehicle, leaving most of the interior hidden in shadow. Ian didn't know what was triggering the feeling, but he never ignored his gut, especially not in a potentially hazardous situation.  
  
They walked the last few feet to the limousine, Nottingham subtly lengthening his stride so that he reached the door before Sara. Ian might normally believe in ladies first, but there was no way he was sending Sara into the darkened interior until he knew it was safe. He dropped with lightning speed into the opening, twisting to present a lesser target, an eight-inch blade appearing in each hand as he did so.  
  
Nothing happened. The pearl grey seats were mockingly empty. The only break in color was their coats, which had formed an untidy puddle of black on the floorboards. A judicious kick, followed by a quick search, proved there was no threat from that quarter either. Ian slid the knives back into their hidden sheaths and continued inspecting the interior for some sign or clue as to what had set him off.  
  
Pezzini watched Ian drop into the limousine. She knew what he was doing; he clearly still considered them to be in danger. His sense of caution spread to her as well. She scanned the crowd, watching for an attack that never came. Finally Nottingham gave the 'all clear', freeing Pezzini to climb in beside him.  
  
With every sense heightened, the previously spacious interior suddenly seemed too small. Sara was terribly aware of the man sitting next to her. His scent teased her nostrils, a subtle blend of musk and sandalwood, and the heat of his hard thigh next to hers pushed all thoughts of danger right out of her head.  
  
Ian was having similar problems; ashamed of how easily his body was subverting his attention. He still was not convinced that they were safely away, but instead of threat assessment, he was fighting to drag his eyes away from the sleek expanse of leg showing through the slit in Sara's emerald green dress.  
  
Sara noticed where Ian's eyes had strayed, and she felt a surge of feminine power at knowing that she could capture the attention of this strong-willed man. It felt wonderful, but she wanted more. Pez crossed her legs, the split falling further open as she did so.  
  
Nottingham unconsciously licked his lips. When Sara raised one leg over the other, the skirt hitched up another few inches. Suddenly he could see the very edge of the lace bordering her stocking. His palms itched to travel up the long leg to that band, and beyond.  
  
He wondered if that was what she wanted him to do, or if she would slap him if he tried. There were times when he cursed his decision to remain chaste for his lady, and this was one of them. Maybe if he had more experience, he would know what to do to please her. 


	14. Enrosque

2  
  
Sara could see the hesitation in Ian's face. She knew he was wondering if this was an invitation to finish what had been interrupted so many times this evening. Maybe he needed another hint? Pezzini smiled invitingly at Nottingham, leaning slightly toward him.  
  
Was she smiling at him? Considering the way their first date had turned into another brush with the supernatural, not to mention the somewhat harsh truths he had spoken, Ian was amazed Sara wanted anything to do with him. He moved closer to her hesitantly, ready to move back if he was reading her wrong.  
  
Not only did Sara not move away, she settled one hand on his hip. That was all the cue Ian needed. He closed the last bit of distance between them, hardly daring to believe that he was finally going to taste the honeyed lips of his beloved.  
  
Nottingham settled his hands on the back of her neck, partly for support, and partly for the feel of her skin against his. It was a compromise, made to help him keep his hands off the mostly bare thigh that he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch.  
  
Besides, that would be moving far too fast. He wanted to savor every moment in its turn. To do otherwise would be like peeking under the wrapping of a Christmas present or reading the last page of a story. Nottingham was not so interested in the destination that he would ignore the joys of the journey.  
  
His lips brushed over Sara's, light as a butterfly wing. She was the epitome of woman, a goddess made flesh, and he was a fortunate pilgrim, come to the shrine of the most holy of holies. How could he be so near and fail to worship Sara, as she deserved, even if she was not ready to hear professions of love? His kiss was filled with reverence and the emotion he dared not speak.  
  
Pezzini didn't know what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this gentle caress. Given what he did for a living, and the way he had danced, she had expected something a little more aggressive. Instead Ian's lips were like the first drops of spring rain, soft, pure, and innocent.  
  
When his soul-baring caress was not rejected, Ian brushed his lips over hers again. This time the glide of sensitive flesh was a little longer, a little bolder, but no less respectful. Perhaps he had read too many tales of courtly love, but he could not treat her as anything other than the incredible gift that she was.  
  
Never had Sara felt so cherished. Her soul opened like the petals of a flower as she returned his embrace in kind. It was an incredible moment that seemed to go on forever. Stars wheeled in her head; surely the universe had turned upside down. How else could she explain feeling so turned around by a simple kiss?  
  
But it was not simple. The kiss was magic, as all first kisses were, and more. There was that indefinable something that Pezzini had never felt before and could not express. She only knew she wanted to wrap the feeling around her like a cloak, to warm her heart forever.  
  
Sara pulled back slightly, wanting to see if the feeling was echoed in Nottingham's eyes. His lashes raised, and his gaze met hers. His eyes were the color expensive cognac with the sun behind it, and just as intoxicating. As she basked in the warmth glowing in those soulful brown orbs, she was convinced he must feel as she did.  
  
His head dipped, beginning their embrace anew. Sara parted her lips, wanting to deepen the contact. She reached up, letting her fingers glide over his high cheekbones and into his hair. Pez felt the edge of the band that held back his dark curls and made a soft complaining sound. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, but the tie kept his glorious mane confined.  
  
Ian reached up without breaking the kiss and jerked at the band in his hair. If his lady wished it gone, he would remove it. The elastic was no match for the strength applied, and gave with a pop. It shot out of his grasp like a launched rubber band. The metal crimp that had been holding the elastic together made a muted ping as it struck the smoked glass divider.  
  
Pezzini looked at him in surprise. She knew from experience that one did not just yank a hair tie out, not without sacrificing several strands. If it pained Nottingham, he showed no sign of it. Instead he shook his head, letting his hair fall free. It framed Ian's face like a dark halo when he was done.  
  
Sara thrust her fingers into the wavy strands, enjoying the silken texture, and pulled his head down for another kiss. She purred her pleasure into his mouth. Their embrace deepened, as Sara continued to use her hold on his hair to tilt his head, which gave her greater access to his mouth.  
  
On the other side of the glass, an unconscious Robert lay shoved over into the passenger side. His head was lolling with the motion of the car. Blood had run from where he had been struck behind his ear, but it was mostly dry now.  
  
The new driver was smiling under his stolen cap as the limousine turned into the dockyards. 


	15. Milongeros

2TT  
  
Neither noticed the limousine's route, they were much too involved in the wonder of each other. It wasn't until all motion ceased that Ian reluctantly pulled back from Sara's embrace. The last thing Ian wanted was to have Robert open the door and find them wrapped around each other like a couple of overheated teenagers in the back seat of Daddy's car.  
  
That would certainly be how Robert would see the situation. Most of the older staff still considered him their adoptive child, and they all knew that Ian had never taken a girl out before. The chauffer had already made a comment about their boy growing up. Not that Robert was indiscreet, but he would tell the other members of his extended family out of genuine fondness. Rather like an over-proud uncle sharing his nephew's exploits at a family gathering.  
  
Nottingham really did not want to have the magic reduced to something so common. Nor did he feel like sharing the feeling with anyone just yet, even if Robert could understand that it was more than a juvenile infatuation. It was too new. He wanted to hold the memory of Sara's kisses tight to his chest and silently revel in the wonder.  
  
He smiled gently at the source of his thoughts, one hand tugging the wayward fabric of her dress back into place. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. He moved closer to the door once Sara was presentable, ready to leap out so he could in turn help her exit the vehicle.  
  
Chivalry also mandated that he escort his lady to her door. If it earned him another kiss at the entrance to her apartment, well, who was he to argue? Ian smiled at the thought, although he was surprised that the door had not yet opened. Robert must be giving them time to pull themselves together. Perhaps he was hoping his young master was taking the opportunity to steal a kiss, having no way to know that Nottingham already had.  
  
Even as he thought it, Nottingham felt a prickle of wrongness. The sensation grew into a stabbing sense of danger. He couldn't explain the feeling, and he didn't try. Instead he pushed Sara to the floorboard as he reached for the door handle. If he was wrong, he could always apologize later. Assuming there was a later.  
  
Nottingham pressed his body as far back into the cushions as he could and turned the handle. The door did not budge. Clearly they were locked in, and somehow he did not think it was because Robert was playing Cupid. Ian would have cursed the excellent soundproofing of the limousine that kept him from hearing what was going on outside, but one did not swear in front of a lady.  
  
Especially since the lady in question probably knew better and more inventive explexitives.  
  
Sara spat out the carpet fuzzies she'd acquired during her unexpected descent. What the hell was he doing? She was debating getting back up as Ian tried to open the door. When it failed to give under his hand, she knew he had sensed something she hadn't.  
  
The Witchblade responded to the spike of alarm from her by changing from bracelet to gauntlet with the harsh whisper of metal on metal. There was a moment to glance down at her wrist, and then the silence was shattered by automatic weapons fire.  
  
Keeping the Witchblade in front of her like a shield, she knelt up and grabbed Ian by the open front of his white shirt. She pulled him down and rolled so that she was over him. The gauntlet expanded to full body armor as a hail of bullets filled the back of the limousine.  
  
"Shit!" Sara cursed, knowing that any limo of Kenny's had to be bulletproof, which meant that the rounds coming through were armor piercing. Would the Witchblade prove up to the challenge of cutting edge technology? If it didn't, they were done for. There was no way to escape without rising up into the lethal barrage.  
  
Or was there? Sara eyed the grey leather cushions. In a normal car, the back seats were the only thing between the trunk and the passenger area. Was the same thing true of limousines? She couldn't remember ever seeing a schematic of a limo, but she was about to find out.  
  
Pezzini pulled her arm back as far as she could, glad of the spacious interior, and shoved the Witchblade into the wooden kickboard of the seat. The blade slid through with less resistance than she had expected, making her lurch forward. Grinning behind her visor, Sara dragged the gauntlet through the wood without regard for the veneer of polished oak, periodically having to saw as she hit a difficult angle.  
  
The sound dampening filler stuck out behind the cuts in white clumps by the time Sara was confident that she had carved out an escape hatch. The blade pulled back, leaving two armored fists to lash out at the crude square she had cut. All those nights punching the bag really paid off. The panel shot into the open space of the trunk, leaving Sara space to crawl through.  
  
"Stay down!" Sara hissed through her visor, not comfortable with the idea of moving away from him, but not seeing any other way to get out and confront the shooter.  
  
Once in the trunk it was simplicity itself to hit the interior release. The hatch opened and Pezzini dived out in that split second that it took the shooter to realize what was happening. She hit the ground rolling, realizing as she hit the concrete that the armor had disappeared again. Sara fleetingly wondered why the Witchblade was so inconsistent in its protection, but had more important things to worry about.  
  
There was a pile of pallets just to her left. Sara moved to the meager shelter, taking a moment to slip out of the high heels. There was no way she was going to be able to maneuver in the damn things. At least the dress was designed with mobility in mind, and wouldn't tangle around her legs or hamper movement.  
  
Bullets chewed through wood, uncomfortably close to her head. Pezzini got her feet under her and scuttled for the next section of cover, trying to figure out how to close with her assailant without eating lead. Next time, assuming Ian wanted another date, she wasn't going to dress in anything she couldn't wear her sidearm with.  
  
Sara almost missed the quiet pff of a silenced round under the automatic weapons fire, but the sudden cessation of bullets convinced her she had heard correctly. She peeked around the edge of the support beam she was behind just in time to see Nottingham spring out of the trunk.  
  
Ian had a pistol with a silencer screwed onto the barrel in one hand. He held it in the ready position, calmly and professionally quartering the area. Sara realized anew how good it could be to have this man at your back.  
  
The last time he had intervened to help her had been when Conchobar was killed. She had not been in the frame of mind to truly appreciate his skill at the time, but she had noted it. Unfortunately those memories had been part of the pain of losing her lover, and Pezzini had avoided looking too closely at those bitter hours.  
  
Sara had believed herself cursed to lose those she cared for, and that she had somehow doomed Conchobar. Time, however, had worked it's magic, dimming the pain and the cutting edge of guilt that had slashed at her. The harsh truth was; they weren't really suited, no matter how romantic it had all seemed in the beginning. There were too many differences in their personalities and lifestyles for it to have lasted.  
  
She knew now that their relationship would have gone the same way as most of her other tattooed, long haired drummer bad boy type boyfriends, regardless of the past life they had supposedly shared.  
  
He'd have stayed in her apartment all day, drinking her beer and eating her out of house and home. Then he'd play at the clubs, when he had a paying gig that is, and come rolling in at obscenely late hours smelling of cigarettes, strange perfume, and booze. Eventually Pezzini would have gotten tired of his bullshit, groupie groping, and mooching and kicked his ass to the curb.  
  
There was only one tattooed long haired bad boy in Sara's life these days, and she was having to face the fact that she had done him a grave disservice in her treatment of him. Nottingham would never even dream of abusing her house or her feelings, and he had a better understanding of her than anyone except Danny. Given the time and opportunity, Ian could become just as close.  
  
The thought brought a stab of resistance, an instantaneous denial that anyone could rival the connection she had shared with her best friend and partner. Was that part of why she was so reluctant to accept Nottingham? Her new partner, Jake McCarty, was no competition for the relationship she used to have with Woo.  
  
Nottingham had finished his scan while Sara was held with the force of her thoughts, and was moving to the limousine. His free hand came up and the hand signals he flashed her were so familiar she fell in without really thinking about what she doing.  
  
Ian handed her a second pistol from the small of his back. Sara would have sworn he didn't have it while they were dancing. He must have some sort of weapons cache in the limousine. She checked the magazine, chambered a round, and nodded her readiness to proceed.  
  
Together they moved through the warehouse like a mini S.W.A.T. team, checking for any other dangers. She did not feel like she was being disloyal to Danny when she was breaking in the surfer dude rookie. But right now this, oh yes this, connection with Ian almost felt like a betrayal of her partner's memory. Sara pushed the thought away and focused. Inattention at this juncture of the game could have a terminal effect.  
  
However, their search turned up nothing more dangerous than some very large rats, and the infamous hissing cockroaches that plagued the poorer sections of New York. Convinced that they were in the clear, the two retuned to the limousine.  
  
Pezzini focused for a moment, willing the Witchblade to return to its gauntlet form. She had no intention of putting her fingerprints all over the perp, and she had no rubber gloves handy. Using the protected hand, Sara turned the shooter over. There was a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.  
  
"Very clean shot for firing on the move," Sara was torn between admiration for his skill and the wish that he had simply disarmed the man, for she did not recognize his face. It would have been nice to know who he was and why he had been trying to kill them.  
  
"Thank you Sara." Ian heard the conflict in her tone, and decided to let her voice her concerns, if it truly bothered her. He hoped she was not angry because he had terminated the shooter. Nottingham would not apologize for protecting her life, or his.  
  
A quick riffling of the dead man's pockets did not turn up any identification, but Sara hadn't really expected it to. Most professionals made sure there was nothing on their person to incriminate them if they were picked up. The 'matchbook clue' was pretty much a literary device only.  
  
Pezzini could count on one hand the number of times that such a thing had occurred, out of the hundreds of homicide cases she had worked. Not that she would have objected to such a thing being as common as it was in the movies and detective novels. It would be nice of the universe to make things that easy for her. Too bad she didn't live in a nice universe.  
  
"We're going to have to burn the limousine." Ian said quietly, almost as though he was talking to himself.  
  
"Why?" Sara cocked her head to the side so she could look up at him over the corpse.  
  
"Because you used the Witchblade to cut through the back seat. The bullet holes I can explain as the work of a business rival, but those gouge marks are a different story. We'd best wipe down the vehicle, I don't want to take the chance that the fire will burn your fingerprints into any of the metal surfaces." Nottingham opened the back of the limousine and pulled their coats out.  
  
"Won't Irons be angry that the limo was destroyed?"  
  
"Not as angry as he would be if he found that I had spent the evening with you. He wants you for himself." There. He'd said it. Ian hunched his shoulders miserably and waited for Sara's reaction.  
  
"He WHAT?!?! Of all the... What makes Irons think I'd ever belong to him? I wouldn't touch that Aryan control freak with a ten foot pole, much less crawl into bed with him." Sara spluttered. She was shocked and appalled at this latest piece of information.  
  
"Your predecessor was quite smitten with him." Nottingham pointed out.  
  
"My predecessor must have been very naïve not to see through Kenny's bullshit. That, or she stood too close to a detonating grenade at some point." Sara shook her head.  
  
A small smile crept over Ian's face. So, fair Sara's affections were not so fixed upon his master as he had been led to believe.  
  
"Wait a minute. I take it you are going to be in deep trouble if Irons finds out we went out tonight, right?" Sara asked.  
  
"Yes. I cannot say what he would do for certain, but it would not be pleasant." Ian kept from wincing at the understatement, but it was a close thing.  
  
"You really need a new job." Sara shook her head.  
  
"It's a little more complicated than that." Nottingham sighed.  
  
"Somehow, it always is," Chalk up yet another obstacle to having a relationship with the darkly handsome man in front of her. Pezzini stood, the hand without the gauntlet smoothing her green skirt.  
  
"Yes, but none of it changes the way I feel about you. There has to be a way for us to be together, and we will find it. I have faith." Ian's voice was filled with conviction.  
  
Sara smiled at the picture he presented with his hair falling wildly around his shoulders. With the white shirt now torn almost to his waist from her urgent grab in the limousine, he really did look like the cover of a romance novel. Now he was talking like one too.  
  
"Come on Fabio, let's get the car taken care of. We can figure the rest out later." Sara opened the front of the limo, intending to check for something to wipe down the interior with.  
  
A grey haired man fell out of the opening door onto Pezzini, who tried her best to catch him. Her balance was better without the high heels, but the angle of his fall was awkward. In the end, she managed to keep hold of his shoulders, but his lower body hit the concrete with a muted thump.  
  
Pezzini could see the blood behind his ear, and lowered him the rest of the way to the ground. There was a knot formed under the broken skin, consistent with a strike from a blackjack. She checked for a pulse. It was thready under her hand, too much so to be accounted for by the head wound. She began to look him over for the cause and found it rather quickly.  
  
The black of his chauffer uniform had hidden the blood from a casual glance, especially in this crappy light, but the sticky feel of it under her hand was unmistakable. Robert had been shot through the stomach, arm, and left leg. Stray bullets must have ricocheted through the seat and into the unconscious man.  
  
"Call an ambulance. I don't think Robert can wait while we destroy evidence." Sara's voice was grim as she laid the poor man out and started basic first aid. She needed to do what she could to stop the bleeding and get his core temperature back up. From the clammy feel of his skin, Robert was already in shock. 


	16. Sneaky serpents

22T A/N: The new doc editor doesn't let me put the spacers between POV changes, so I've put an extra space in. Sorry if it's a little harder to read.

Although it went against the grain, Sara let Ian convince her to take a cab back to her apartment. His argument that it would be hours by the time he went downtown and answered the detectives questions held weight. Even in a clear-cut case of self-defense like this Nottingham would see the inside of a jail cell.  
  
While Irons doubtless had very good lawyers on retainer that would arrange his bail, it was still going to take the rest of the night. Not even Nottingham's position as the bodyguard of one of the most influential people in the city was going to get him out before morning.  
  
It was possible that Sara could throw her weight around to make things easier, but it wasn't going to make enough difference to balance out what would happen to Ian when Kenneth found out about their date. It certainly wouldn't make her job any easier either.  
  
Pez could just hear Dante blowing a gasket over this. The captain would probably take it as a gift from above to suspend her and put a write- up in her file. Not what Sara would consider justice, but Dante was hell- bent on carrying his grudge against her father over to the next generation. It was quite a difference from the support she had received from his predecessor, Joe Siri.  
  
Sara missed Joe a lot. He had been a friend of her dad's since before she was even born. The Siri family had been an extension of hers for as long as she could remember. He had done his best to take care of her after her father had died. Joe was the rock, the constant, in her life. His retirement was hard to take for a lot of reasons besides the fact that his replacement was an ass.  
  
Too bad it hadn't been Siri who walked in on Ian's little strip tease in her office yesterday. He would have had a sense of humor about the whole thing. Joe would have teased her instead of the lecture she'd gotten from Dante. Sara grinned to herself as she thought back to Ian's surprising Valentine's Day present.  
  
The grin was still on her face when the cab pulled up in front of her apartment building. Sara handed the cabbie the bill that Ian had pulled out of his wallet, a little disconcerted to realize in the better lighting of her street that it was a hundred. Sara took the change and tipped him a twenty. She didn't want to be too generous, the drivers tended to remember the big tippers just as much as the ones who stiffed them, and Sara did not want to stand out in his memory.  
  
Missing Ian's gentlemanly assistance, Sara walked carefully on the slick concrete. Once inside she moved more quickly, ready to return to her place and get back into more comfortable attire. At least she didn't have to work tomorrow, so she could sleep in. Too bad she was going to have to do that by herself. It wasn't the way she had been half hoping the night would end.

  
  
Nottingham waited until Sara had been safely bundled into the yellow cab before returning to the limousine. What he was about to do, he could not have Sara observe. She would never agree, and he did not want to end their first date with a clash of morals. It was bad enough that it had ended with a threat to her life. Being shot at was hardly how he had envisioned their evening ending.  
  
The body of the shooter was going to have to go. He had been very careful during his phone call to 911, implying that the situation was a hit and run. Thankful that his .22 shell casing was small and easily identifiable, Ian pocketed the brass cartridge and then the shooter's weapon. The other shell casings he left where they lay.  
  
Sara would have a fit if she was to see him heft the corpse and grab a length of rusty chain, but there was nothing else Ian could think to do. He did not have her faith in the justice system. Especially not when he was in a position to know just how corrupt it really was.  
  
Nor had he any desire to be at the mercy of Captain Dante, a man who chafed under the restrictions of his master. It was easy to see how he could find himself a bargaining chip in the police captain's bid for independence. It was not a role Ian wished to play, nor a debt he wished to incur.  
  
He wrapped the chain around the shooter's midsection and dumped him into the oily water that lapped around the wharf. Nottingham unscrewed the silencer and tossed both it and the .22 pistol in as well. It was unlikely that the body would be found, and even if it were, there would be nothing to link it to him. The gun would never surface, and the conglomeration of silt and muck made it unlikely that a dive team would spot it. Not that it was registered in the first place, but Ian liked to cover his bases.  
  
A hurried check on Robert showed his condition unchanged. Nottingham was torn between his concerns for the older man, and relief that the emergency services crews were not yet on the scene. At least he and Sara knew enough field medicine to stabilize the chauffeur's condition.  
  
He went back into the warehouse to where the limousine was still parked and knelt down. Nottingham pulled his favorite knife out of the sheath on his calf and reached under the car to puncture the gas tank. Once that was done, he put the blade back and reached for the pocket of a coat he wasn't wearing.  
  
Ian walked back to where Robert lay covered with his coat, cursing his lack of forethought. He should have gotten the matches when he checked on the injured man, instead of wasting precious time going in and out of the ramshackle old building. Already his sensitive hearing was picking up the distinctive wail of the approaching ambulance.  
  
Ian fished a book of matches out of the black leather. He was careful not to disturb the shell casings as he moved back to the shooter's position. He stood for a few minutes, staring at the spreading puddle of gasoline under the limo. He hoped he had enough time to move before the vehicle exploded, but he couldn't wait any longer.  
  
The soft scritch of sulfur tipped match against the emery strip on the back of the matchbook brought to life a small flame. Ian lightly tossed the match and ran full out for the open loading doors. The resulting explosion seemed to chase after the fleeing form, but fell short, leaving him unscathed. Nottingham slowed to a stop next to Robert and knelt by him to await the ambulance that was drawing closer.

  
  
Sara's quick shower turned out to be quite a bit longer than she intended. The night had been so filled with revelations that she couldn't seem to focus on basic, ordinary things, like washing her hair with shampoo before using the conditioner. Ian's kisses, the wicked bitch of the South, the vision of Elizabeth, the way Ian's hair felt in her hands, the Witchblade changing back to the snake form, Ian's eyes hot with desire, the mesmerizing ability of Carmelita, all bounced and careened through her head with no rhyme or reason.  
  
By the time she was finally clean, an hour had passed. Pez dried off with absentminded swipes of a white terrycloth towel. Her brain had been running around in circles, like a small child trying desperately to prove he wasn't tired, and it was finally wearing down.  
  
Pausing long enough to pull on a pair of men's black boxers and a grey tank top, Sara gave in to the call of Morpheus and tumbled into bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow, with dreams coming close on slumber's heels. In the darkened apartment, the faint red glow of the Witchblade peeped through the fall of brunette hair that surrounded it.  
  
The ballroom was crowded; there were far too many people on the dance floor for ease of movement. Each pair was dressed in the fashion of another age. At first she was enchanted by the myriad costumes, enjoying the white flash of togas next to the somber elegance of Victorian black and the drift of kimonos next to the stiffened satin of the French Regency.  
  
Then she realized they all wore identical white porcelain face masks. It was a little disturbing to bring so many cultures together only to hide their personal individuality. The faceless couples brushed against her in a pattern of advance and retreat, forcibly reminding Sara of waves rolling and pushing an empty shell against the shore. Not liking the feeling of being driven, she began to push her way out of the crowd.  
  
Finally Sara managed to wade through the sea of humanity to the opening in a line of potted plants that framed an alcove. A marble bench was tucked back there, although Sara couldn't have said how she would know it would be there, and she collapsed on it gratefully.  
  
"Ssooo many livesss, sooo many deathsss, with nothing truly changing. Do you ever grow weary of it all?" The voice behind Sara was soft, familiar, and soothing.  
  
"Sometimes." Sara nodded in agreement.  
  
"Then perhapsss you ssshould lay down your burden and ressst." The softly sibilant tones lulled the brunette into leaning back, her head resting on the wall behind her.  
  
"Give up that which you carry, sssurely he never intended for you to bear thisss weight for ssooo long, daughter of Eve."  
  
Warmth and support poured from the unseen speaker, and Sara relaxed further yet, the arm with the Witchblade dropping from her lap as if too heavy. There was a muted click as the red stone lightly met the wall at the end of her arm's downward arc.  
  
Her eyelids were so heavy with the need to sleep that they felt weighted. She let them close, too tired to keep them open. A pleasant heat, like a winter sunbeam through glass, started at her toes and began to move up her legs in a warm spiral.  
  
Sara shifted, trying to get more comfortable on the hard marble, and found she could not move her legs. This was disturbing in a distantly annoying sort of way, like a fly buzzing just out of swatting range. Pezzini knew she should open her eyes to see what the matter could be, but it seemed like too much effort.

  
  
Ian watched the ambulance crew efficiently bustle Robert into the back of the bus. He wished he could go with the injured man, but there was really nothing more he could do for him. Besides, the back of the ambulance was not very big. He would only get in the paramedics' way.  
  
Instead he squared his shoulders and turned to face the pair of uniformed officers that had arrived just behind the ambulance. Nottingham was glad it had not been any of Sara's coworkers. Eventually he would have to speak to someone from her department, since this was going to be filed as an attempted homicide, but by the time he did the evidence should be quite contaminated.  
  
If not melted beyond recognition. The warehouse was burning quite merrily. Ian was glad that there was a fair amount of space between it and the next building. He had not expected the flames to grow so large. Fortunately he had called the fire department while waiting by Robert for the ambulance. They should be here soon enough to prevent the blaze from spreading.  
  
"Good evening officers. I would like to thank you for your prompt arrival," Ian said pleasantly, and continued to lie like a rug, telling the two that he believed the attack was meant for Mr. Irons.  
  
They were incredibly easy to lead, and Nottingham soon had them eating out of the proverbial palm of his hand. He used a judicious combination of admiration and praise in his sentences, watching them preen under the positive attention. It was a trick he had learned from Kenneth, one that never failed to provide the desired result.  
  
By the time the crime scene van had pulled up, Nottingham had their complete cooperation and an offer for a ride to the hospital, which he graciously accepted. Soon he was going to have to call Irons and tell him what had happened, but not here. His master was not so easy to deceive. Ian was going to have to tell him part of the truth; there was no way around it. Kenneth had a far superior ear for discerning falsehoods.

  
  
Kenneth Irons lay on sheets of pewter colored silk, a sense of unease pulling him from his contented musings. He should have been relaxed and well pleased, his evening had gone exactly as he had intended. The sleek blonde trophy wife of his rival had fallen to his practiced charm, giving Kenneth vital information before falling into his bed.  
  
Normally he would enjoy her surgically enhanced charms another time before sending her on her way, for Kenneth detested dealing with clingy women the morning after, but the sense of wrongness was increasing. He slipped out of bed and shrugged into the blue and gold silk velvet robe. Irons tied the matching belt as he walked out of the room, something telling him that he did not have time to deal with the woman just now.  
  
His bare feet made no noise as he passed through the mansion, his steps hurried but light over Persian carpet and Italian marble. Kenneth was not sure where he was going until he turned a corner and was in the hall that housed his Witchblade artifacts.  
  
The scarring on the back of his hand suddenly throbbed, the pain as sharp as it was the night he had placed the Witchblade on his own wrist. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Irons reached into the pocket of his robe for his ever-present cell phone. He flipped it open one-handed and pushed the button that would ring its twin.  
  
Not waiting to hear Nottingham speak, he barked into the mouthpiece, "The Wielder is in danger. Why are you answering the phone?"  
  
"I am not with her at this time." Nottingham kept his voice calm, despite the surge of fear he felt at his master's pronouncement, mindful of the attentive face of Detective Orlinsky.  
  
"Then where, pray tell, are you?" Irons hissed malevolently.  
  
"Filling out paperwork at the Precinct. Someone shot up limousine four, and Robert as well. I can only assume it was meant to be an attack on your person."  
  
"Quit wasting your time going over their incompetence and take yourself to the Wielder's side. Now, Ian." Kenneth's voice brooked no objections. In fact, he hung up before Nottingham could say anything in response.

  
  
Standing over Sara's bed, Carmelita smiled coldly as she continued to bind the brunette. It had been very considerate of the detective to show her where she lived. Not that it would have been difficult to discover, but it had saved her a great deal of time. That pleased her and her ancestress. Ceto was patient as only the immortal can be, but there was an edge of anticipation in her voice this night that Carmelita had not heard before.  
  
Unfortunately, there were limits to what she could do to one the Witchblade had already bonded with. Some of her gifts would not work at all, the blood of the mother giving the Wielder a partial immunity to Gorgon abilities. This was why she could not capture Sara's will with her gaze.  
  
She could, however, hold the woman in her dreams. It was fairly easy really; the Witchblade had already accustomed Pezzini to outside interference on this front by influencing her slumbering subconscious. All Carmelita had to do was ride the connection already made, her bloodline giving her a free pass in, thanks to the laws of similarity and contagion.  
  
Too bad that the instant she attacked, the sorcerous sleep would fail. The best she could do was to truss the Wielder like a Christmas goose before she started the ritual that would separate the two. Once the Blade was parted from Wielder, Serpent could be freed from Branch. The unbinding was dangerous to the human element of the pairing, flesh being far more fragile than the supernatural metal, but that hardly mattered to Carmelita.  
  
In truth, she had been a little disappointed that her compadrito had failed to eliminate the bitch. Her survival had not come as a surprise, the reputation of the weapon, as well as its current wielder, had meant that any other outcome was unlikely. However, it would have been more convenient if the detective had died in a firefight.  
  
Now Carmelita had several extra steps to perform in the ritual, as well having to rid herself of the woman's corpse in some fashion that would not lead the police to her door. She frowned down at the sleeping form as she reached for the small pot that held her own blood and began painting the symbols that would render the Witchblade inactive with the tail of a young serpent enchanted into stillness.  
  
At least that much of the warehouse attack had not been wasted. Once Sara passed over the glyphs painted on the concrete with salt and water, the Witchblade had been temporarily rendered inert. Carmelita was not sure they would work, since they were ancient Mayan symbols and had nothing to do with the Judaic religion that held the tales that were the beginning of the Witchblade.  
  
Yet they had worked, and worked well for as long as they had lasted. These glyphs would not evaporate like their earlier counterparts, and so should hold the Witchblade from action until the end of the ceremony. As Carmelita drew, the woman bound on the bed began to twitch and jerk as if each painted line was the pass of a blade across her flesh.

  
  
Irons stared at the back of his hand. At first he thought some supernatural force was redrawing the scar, but he realized that was not the case. Time was flowing backward for him, a century somehow compressed into an hour. The scar had fallen back to the deep burn that had he had born for a year and a day after putting on the Witchblade.  
  
What did this reversal mean? Would his connection with the Gauntlet fade with the mark on his flesh? Irons walked past display after display of Wielder artifacts, intending to see what he could learn in the archive of texts he kept at the end of the room.  
  
He found himself stopped in front of a Canaanite sculpture depicting the downfall of man and stared. The image held him, the image teasing at the edge of his mind. There was something important, if only he could remember. He stared harder at the stone serpent coiled around the branch of a tall fruit tree, head lowered as if conversing with the female figure below.  
  
Kenneth willed the image to give up its secrets, the fingers of his hand brushing lightly over the stone. The strange double vision that had been gifted unto him from his brief wearing of the ancient gauntlet came over him, and the serpent turned to gaze at him.  
  
His hand fell away from the carving as Irons prudently stepped backward. The snake became clearer, shadows bringing each scale into sharp relief. The forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air. Kenneth stepped back again, a horrible suspicion dawning. Was this some trap left by Dominique? She had always had an unnatural affinity for snakes.  
  
"Ahhhh, the High Priessst." The eyes of the serpent were dark and full of knowledge.  
  
Irons felt the tug as she tried to pull him down into those slit orbs. A chill spread through him as he realized who the serpent had to be.  
  
"Ceto," Kenneth dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement and respect, all the while wondering why the ancient Greek Goddess had chosen to speak with him this night.  
  
"You have been hidden from my sssight, but ever could I feel your hand upon the weave. Long and long did I sssearch for you, without sssucessss. That hasss changed. I sssee you now Priessst." Ceto sounded very self- satisfied by that fact.  
  
"Now that you have found me, what would you have of me?" She was as ancient as the world, filled with great wisdom, and the mother of monsters. It would be best if he trod very carefully here.  
  
"Your meddlessssome interfering life," Ceto replied, stone coils loosening from the tree. She dropped to the parquetry floor and slithered toward Irons, stone scales making a soft grinding sound.


	17. Ghosts and Goddesses

  
  
"Wake up Sara."  
  
"Whaaa..." Sara was a horrible morning person, and today was no exception.  
  
"Come on, I've got coffee." the voice of her partner cajoled.  
  
Sara mumbled and mphed, trying to burrow back under the covers. She must have slept pretty hard, they were twisted around her tight enough to restrict movement.  
  
"Hot, fresh, and chock full of sugar and caffeine, coffee. Made just the way you like it," From the cheerful singsong way he was taunting her about coffee, it was obvious that he was not going to let her sleep. Bastard.  
  
Even with her eyes closed, Sara could feel the line of warmth that was Danny sitting by her hip. He touched her arm, smoothed a lock of hair back from her head. This time his voice was soft and concerned, and it rang alarm bells in her sluggish brain. "I need you to wake up for me, please."  
  
"Don' wanna get up," Sara protested sluggishly.  
  
"You never do."  
  
"Danny?" Sara pushed up through the layers of sleep, aware enough to remember that her partner was dead. The only time he had ever been able to touch her was when she had been dying. Was she dreaming his touch, or was she so badly wounded she didn't remember being hit?  
  
For a moment she lay there, savoring the touch she had never expected to feel again this side of the grave. It was a bittersweet pleasure, but she gathered the sensations into her heart, hoarding them against another moment of need. It was one more memory to combat the pain of losing the other half of her soul.  
  
Keeping her eyes closed, Sara laid her hand over Danny's, where it rested on her arm. His skin was smooth and warm under her calloused palm. She could smell the faint spice of his cologne. His other hand came over to sandwich hers, and it was like being home.  
  
"That's it, use the Force, young Grasshopper," Danny cajoled, sounding relieved as she stirred.  
  
"Empire Strikes Kung Fu?" Sara asked, mouth feeling as full of cotton as her brain.  
  
"Hey, whatever it takes to get your attention. I can start quoting Radiohead if it will get you to snap out of it. Come on Sara, you're still not quite awake, and you need to be."  
  
"So tired."  
  
"It's a very clever form of enchantment. She has bound you through the Witchblade, and then shut down the weapon. Since you and the Gauntlet are connected, what weakens the Blade weakens you, and doubly binds you to this unnatural rest."  
  
"If I'm deep in some magic sleep, how come I'm talking to you?" Sara narrowed her eyes. Even half-awake that didn't seem right.  
  
"I'm bending the rules to the breaking point, that's how." Danny gave her the same stoic look he wore when he was up before a review board. How he managed to convey both resistance and penitence without saying a word always amazed Sara.  
  
"Look, this is your afterlife you are screwing with Danny. Don't get in trouble because of me, ok?" Sara tugged on the hand sandwiched between hers for emphasis.  
  
"You let me worry about that. Besides, partners always watch each other's backs, and you're about to get a big knife in yours." Danny warned.  
  
"Thanks partner. I really miss you, you know that?" Sara asked softly, her eyes seeking out his.  
  
"I know." Danny's eyes were dark with the same pain. "Now finish waking up Sara, or you won't be missing me at all."  
  
"Would that be such a bad thing?"  
  
"Yeah, it would, and you know it."  
  
"No, Danny, I don't." Sara tightened her grip on his hand, not wanting to lose this moment.  
  
"Yes you do. I know how you feel. How could I not? But you are alive for a reason. So live, damn it," His dark eyes turned fierce.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about, last time I checked I was still alive," Sara replied defensively.  
  
"Yes you do. I said live. There's a big difference between being alive and living."  
  
"Like what?" Sara growled, clearly frustrated.  
  
"How many friends do you have? What do you do besides work these days? When was the last time you did something fun?"  
  
"I just got back from a night of Tango dancing," Sara pointed out righteously.  
  
"Yes, and poor Nottingham, god I never thought I'd say that, had to damn near strip naked and do a dance to get your attention." Danny riposted with a small smile fighting to take over his lips.  
  
"You saw that?!?!" Sara screeched, her face turning bright red with embarrassment.  
  
"Every last shimmy." His face was as smug as his voice.  
  
"I...you...that...that was personal!" Sara spluttered.  
  
"Yes it was, and very brave of him to do in public. I wasn't sure what to think about Nottingham at first, but I'm starting to really warm up to him. Of course, that could just be the thong." Danny chuckled.  
  
"Oh you!" Sara swatted at him with her free hand, only to have it pass through his torso like he wasn't there.  
  
"I've overstayed my welcome, it would appear. Time for you to go back to the land of the living," Danny closed his eyes in regret. For a moment it had been so very like old times that he had forgotten he was dead.

Meanwhile, back at the mansion...   
  
"How have I come to offend thee?" Kenneth backed prudently away from the stone serpent slithering across the floor.  
  
"You have interfered in my plansss for over two thousssand yearsss, and you have the gall to asssk how you have offended?" Ceto stopped for a moment, head reared back indignantly.  
  
"I think this is a case of mistaken identity. The span of a mortal's life is considerably shorter than two millennia." Kenneth replied, his tone a mix of reason and conviction, with just a touch of condescension in his tone at her unreasonable comment.  
  
"Pleassse do not insssult my intelligence, Priessst. We both know that there are waysss around sssuch conssstraintsss of the flesssh. You may have ssshed your ssskin a few timesss sssince lassst we met, but the sssoul inssside hasss not changed." Ceto was no fool, nor was she so easily swayed by Irons facile tongue.  
  
"Yet I am convinced we have never met, however many lifetimes I may or may not have lived. I cannot imagine a being of your magnificence escaping my attention." A little flattery never hurt, in fact Gods seemed especially vulnerable to such things.  
  
"Shall I remind you, Caesar, of the last time we met?" Ceto shifted slightly, turning her head to the side.  
  
The eye facing Kenneth darkened again, pulling him down the river of memory. Once again he was standing victorious over the remnants of Cleopatra and Antony's Army. They had thought to betray him and rule an Egypt free of Rome.  
  
They had paid for their folly, Antony had fallen in battle and soon he would have the lovely queen back at his feet where she belonged. Ungrateful bitch. He had raised her up, and as soon as his back was turned she'd taken up with one of his own generals. He was looking forward to reminding her of her place.  
  
The black haired beauty had been brought before him, grief dulling her once vibrant eyes. He had ordered her confined, with every intention of beginning her lesson that very night. Cleopatra would never look at another man again after he was done with her.  
  
Instead she had found an asp to place at her breast, although none could tell him how this feat was accomplished. Considering the size of the serpent that had been coiled around her still form, it could not have simply slithered in through a crack somewhere, nor could it have been in the room when Cleopatra had been placed inside. The room had been empty of all save a small cot. An Egyptian Asp that was eight feet long could not have been missed in such open quarters.  
  
Yet no matter what he ordered done to the guards who had been stationed at her door, they insisted that no one had entered the room until they opened the door for him. Luckily for the two guards, he had taken a large portion of his anger out on the snake, hacking it with his gladius with all the thwarted fury in his heart.  
  
It was a wonder he had not been bitten during his headlong assault, yet his unscathed emergence had cemented the opinion of the men that the gods favored him above all others. He had heard the superstitious mutterings of the troops, how a serpent of such unnatural size appearing in a locked room could have only been the result of magic. Privately he had to agree, even as he ruthlessly suppressed such tales, there had been too much intelligence in the serpent's eyes.  
  
The same eyes that were looking at him now, from a considerably closer vantage than before, Kenneth was disturbed to see. He didn't think he could make the exit, and doubted if the door would hold even if he did. No, the best option available to him now was to get as far as the display that held the bull-headed mace of Macenion.  
  
"That was another lifetime. I have no memory of the thing, save that which you have given me. All mortals are given the Draught of Forgetfulness, made from the waters of the Lethe, before being allowed to be reborn." Kenneth edged sideways toward the display case as he spoke. He could only hope that she believed in the mythos of her own pantheon.  
  
"You may have forgotten, but I have not. Nor does the Draught amend your guilt in slaying one of my children. Even were I inclined to leave sssuch thingsss in the passst, you have committed offenssses enough againssst me in thisss century to warrant your death." Ceto tracked his movement with her head, knowing she was close enough to strike without fear of missing. No mortal was faster than she, and she wanted this Priest to understand the gravity of his transgressions before she sank stone fangs into his flesh.  
  
"I have never defiled your temples, nor assaulted your offspring in this life." Kenneth played for time as he pressed his thumb to the locking mechanism on the case. With a soft click and hiss of escaping air, the hermetically sealed display opened.  
  
"Medusssa was my daughter, the third and only mortal Gorgon born to me. You knew her asss Dominique. It wasss your interference that kept her from truly knowing me. It wasss you who sssought to change her nature, and almost cossst her the only form of immortality ssshe hasss. It wasss you who have kept from me that which can ressstore me to my former glory." Ceto rose up, preparing to strike the impudent mortal.  
  
"I have done what I must to further my own ambitions. Surely you can understand that it was not personal. If I have something that you desire, I am willing to make an exchange," Kenneth slid his hand inside the case without taking his eyes off the angry goddess. He did not need to, the mace was visible in his peripheral sight.  
  
Made of basalt, it was a beautiful blackish-red work of art. The king of Macedon had wielded in battle as well as a symbol of his God's blessing on his rule. Irons had arranged for it to be part of his collection since Macenion had taken it into battle against one of the Wielders.  
  
Of greater import to him at the moment, it had been carved from the same outcropping of stone that the sea monster, Cetus, had been slain upon when he had come ashore to devour Andromeda. His blood had saturated the stone, giving it the distinctive reddish hue, and adding to the mystic strength of the weapon.  
  
Was it powerful enough to drive an ancient goddess from his house? Kenneth could only hope that it was as he closed his hand around the haft. He comforted himself with the thought that anything blessed by priests and worshipped by the masses acquired a power of its own, and an object made of such special material was doubly potent.  
  
It was no Witchblade, but perhaps it would serve him better in this instance. A blade would do little damage against stone. A maul or a war hammer might have been nice, but they were slow and less than ideal for close quarters and speed. A mace, however, should work just fine. He pulled it from the case, using the arc of the movement to swipe at the striking serpent.  
  
Ceto saw the blur of black, felt the passage of charged air as she jerked back. Ah, a weapon of power. She should have expected that. The priest had not kept himself from her sight for centuries by being a fool. She slithered backward slightly and coiled for another strike.  
  
Irons did not wait for her, moving in with the mace up and ready to swing. He handled it with the skill and ease of a man born to warfare. Once in range, he feinted for her head, twirling the mace as she dodged and striking low. Stone cracked under the powerful blow, small chips dropped with a soft clatter, but the coil did not break.  
  
The giant head whipped around; trying to take advantage of the opening he had given her. Kenneth saw the ripple of stony muscle, and pivoted, taking himself out of range, only to swing back in on the end of the turn and land another blow. This time the mace connected higher, knocking the raised part of her body backward from the force of the impact.  
  
Ceto let herself go with the momentum, freeing her tail to retaliate. She whipped it across his calves, knocking the tall blonde to the ground. The serpent twisted her body and brought her head down to sink her fangs into his prone form. Irons was not so easily caught, rolling away with inhuman speed. Even so, Ceto missed my millimeters only. Her mouth closed with a sharp snap on the padded velvet collar of his robe, which shredded under the abuse.  
  
Kenneth glared up at the avatar, rather displeased to see a large section of blue and gold fabric caught in one of Ceto's fangs. That had been a great deal closer than he liked. He could feel the cold air on his back and the tatters fluttering over his shoulder blades. The sleeves were drooping, and could affect his swings.  
  
With a curse he backed away, one hand dropping to the belt that held the robe on. He was not going to lose everything he had worked for to an animated pile of stone. He shrugged out of the torn silk and velvet, letting it pool around his ankles. His eyes were narrow chips of blue ice as he moved back into the battle wearing nothing but a coldly determined smile.  
  
The two dueled around the chamber, battling in the weak light of the moon. If anyone had stumbled upon the battle, they could easily be excused for thinking they were looking at an ancient tableau somehow brought to life. Tall and broad shouldered as any ancient warrior ever immortalized in stone, Kenneth was locked in mortal combat with a monster straight out of myth.  
  
Blood and stone dust streaked his naked flesh, but his blows were slowly taking a toll. There were chunks missing out of the serpent now. Ceto could not twist and whip as she had in the beginning without putting added stress on the cracks his mace had created in her hide. Her lessened mobility let Irons land more and more blows while taking fewer in return.  
  
Ceto had been looking forward to crushing the man who had thwarted her at every turn, but this was no easy prey. He fought with a skill and cunning one only normally encountered in a priest of Aries. She had come to realize that the stone body she inhabited had weaknesses that might keep her from slaying Irons at this time.  
  
While she was not best pleased by the thought, in truth it did not matter how the conflict ended. By engaging his attention, she kept the High Priest from saving his charge. She would die at the hand of her daughter, and the cursed Blade would be broken. Without the Witchblade clouding him from her sight, she could find him at any time, and finish what she had started.

A/N: Meli-chan, see, it's not over. LaFemmeLurker, nice to hear from you. Haven't seen you in a while. I guess I just like my villans too much. Must come from being the DM for years. Thelma, I realize I didn't really answer any of your questions this chapter, but hold on. The next installment is coming. Dragongrrl, thanks! I love to blend history and fantasy, to try and create a credible timeline for the Witchblade. It was such a multileveled creation in the series, and I try to bring that to my stories as well. passes out cyber chocolate to all my reviewers Thanks, I love to hear from you all!


	18. Sanguine

A/N: Hello to my newest reviewer, Ashley. Best grab a pillow dear, more fainting ahead I suspect. Welcome! Dragongrrl, thanks for taking the time to read and review. Since I started writing I never seem to have time to do that any more. You are a better time manager than I. LOL Don't worry about the action scenes, they get easier as you write them. Pezzini, Thelma, sorry to make you wait so long for this. I'm duking it out with my Muses over the ending, which has sidetracked everything in between.  
  
Two to Tango Ch. 18  
  
With a jolt, Sara opened eyes she had thought already open. She was still in her bedroom, in her bed, but there the similarity ended. The warmth sitting by her hip was softer and more curved, definitely not Danny. Her sheets, judging from the cool air on her skin, were down somewhere on the floor instead of twisted around her body. Even so, Pez still couldn't move.  
  
Despite the adrenaline coursing through her at the realization, she still felt like the fourth day of the three-day bender. It was so hard to focus; everything was seen through a blurry haze. Her head ached, her stomach was in knots, even her hair hurt, and surely to God something had died in her mouth.  
  
Oh wait, that was the sock she'd been gagged with. Why couldn't Carmelita have used a clean sock? What a sadistic bitch.  
  
It was the proverbial last straw. Anger pushed the last bits of fog from Sara's brain. She ignored the pounding in her temples and worked to orient herself to her surroundings. She knew she was in trouble, Danny had made that pretty clear, but she didn't know what kind.  
  
A glance down her body revealed a criss-crossing of rope binding her from shoulders to ankles. She looked like a bondage poster girl, except her sleepwear wasn't exactly sexy enough. Sara flexed against the constraints, hoping for some give in the rope that she could maneuver. There was none.  
  
The soft sound of chanting washed over her. It wasn't in English, and the Witchblade wasn't translating, so Sara had no idea what was being said. She did recognize that voice though. Those sibilant esses were a dead giveaway. Carmelita had said they would meet again soon, but Pez had not thought she meant tonight. That lack of caution had cost her, but she wasn't out of the game yet.  
  
She focused on the Witchblade, willing the blade to come out so she could cut her bonds. Nothing happened. Pezzini could not even get the bracelet form to change into the gauntlet, which would have probably severed that section of rope. Startled by it's unresponsiveness, she stared down at her wrist. She noticed that the stone was dull under the brownish- red symbol that had been painted over it.  
  
Great, the Witchblade was vulnerable to graffiti. Some all-powerful weapon the gauntlet was turning out to be. Any punk kid with a can of spray paint had its number. Cursing under her breath, Sara began to alternately strain and relax against the ropes, hoping to work free. It wasn't much, but it was all she could think of for the moment.  
  
The glint of metal pulled her attention from the rope. Sara strained to look back over her shoulder to see what was going on. She could only observe the half of Carmelita that was closest to her, but that didn't matter. What she could see was quite enough to make her strain harder against the ropes.  
  
The Gorgon was holding a strange silvery knife, the gleam was not the same as steel, and Sara had seen enough to know the difference, as Carmelita continued to chant. It was eight inches long and as twisted as Kenny's sense of morality. All Pezzini could think of was Danny's warning.  
  
Instead of plunging the blade in her back, Carmelita brought the blade down over the bound wrist opposite the one the Witchblade rested on. She made a long cut upwards from the edge of the rope binding her hand to the rope at her elbow, which hurt surprisingly little. The blade must be very, very sharp.  
  
Blood welled out of the wound and flowed in thick rivulets over her arm, hitting the ropes holding her. Some of it followed the line around her wrist, but a portion of the blood was soaking into the fibers. On the plus side, it would eventually make the rope slick enough that she might work her hand free.  
  
If she didn't pass out from blood loss first, that is. This was the kind of cut that people serious about suicide made in bathtubs. It nearly always worked, they bled out long before anyone could realize the danger and save them.  
  
Faced with death, Sara realized that she really did want to live, and if she got out of this in one piece she was going to hear a big 'I told you so' from Danny. She might even listen to it with good grace.

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoNever had Nottingham moved so quickly. Orlinski was left talking to air as Ian hung up the phone and practically flew out of the station house. He did not even offer an explanation, knowing that Irons had more than enough clout to smooth over his poor manners.  
  
He had stolen a police motorcycle that someone had been fool enough to leave out front with the key in the ignition, and driven down the city streets like the proverbial bat out of hell. He even drove on the sidewalks when traffic was too tight for him to weave through, ignoring the shouts and lewd hand gestures the populace had for the numerous near misses.  
  
He had drawn his share of odd looks from the people he passed, even for a city as jaded as New York, and not just because of his seemingly reckless driving. His black trench coat and hair flowing out behind him, the torn white shirt fluttering around his chest, and the snug black pants did not fit anyone's idea of a motorcycle cop.  
  
Catching the looks, Ian decided he really should have had a bandit mask and been riding a black horse, very aware of exactly what he was wearing. He needed to finish what Sara had started, and tear off the stupid white shirt. That or he needed his costume back. A small grin tugged at his lips as he thought about Sara's face if he showed up on her doorstep wearing the patrolman's uniform. She might be quicker to forgive him for butting in on whatever was going on.  
  
Sara believed she was quite capable of taking care of herself, even when she wasn't. He would probably get there just in time, and she would give him an earful for not trusting her to handle the problem. Not that that was going to stop him. He saved her because he loved her, not for hope of reward.  
  
Although it would be nice if once, just once he'd get a kiss and a thank you for saving her lovely neck, instead of being glared at and told off.  
  
Maybe tonight was the night? No, one date was not going to make that much impact on Lady Sara's demeanor, especially if she was in a great deal of danger. The level of peril seemed to be in direct opposition to the level of appreciation he received, and Irons seemed to think the danger was dire indeed.  
  
Even with concern for Sara pressing down on him, Ian abandoned the motorcycle three blocks away and ran the remaining distance. He was not going to leave trouble on his lady's doorstep if he could possibly help it. In fact, he left the key in the ignition to increase the likelihood that someone else would steal it as he had. It would muddy the waters even more if another took it for a joyride or stripped it for parts.  
  
Nottingham leapt onto the fire escape and bounded up the metal stairs two at a time. Now that he was this close, he could feel the change in the air. There was a smell to magically charged air, like ozone and rain, and it tickled his nose as he climbed. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he detected the metallic tang of blood.  
  
Was he too late?  
  
As soon as the thought occurred, Ian shoved it aside. He would not let it be so. He would open her window; jump into the apartment, and save her. Lady Sara was going to be just fine. He knew she would be. He held that belief to him as he swung around the last upward set of stairs to her landing.  
  
Everything would be all right, because it had to be. He could not live without her. She was his sun, his moon, and his starlit sky. Without her, he dwelled in darkness. A darkness he was infinitely weary of. 


	19. Tampering with Fate

A/N: Animegoddess, guilty as charged. I've always loved that scene, and I couldn't resist. Especially since there is an episode in S2 where he calls Sara his moon. Hee. Pezzini, the chocolate must be working. I've made some pretty hard calls, as you're about to see. LaFemmeLurker, it's not really Sara's fault she's not doing anything. My Harpi..ahem, I mean Muses have her pretty well pinned. Thelma, yes Danny will make another appearance, just not this chapter. My thanks to everyone who reviews, feedback fuels the fiction.  
  
Chapter 19  
  
The binding sigils were holding admirably. Carmelita knew Pezzini was awake, she had not expected the enchanted slumber to hold once she made the first cut into the detective's flesh. It was one of the reasons she'd bound Sara so tightly in the first place. The other was that it kept her from smearing or flaking the sigils holding the Witchblade at bay.  
  
Blood was wonderfully symbolic, and held more power than modern man wished to believe, but it was Hell as a writing medium. Carmelita could not afford any mistakes, and would have preferred something a little less inclined to run or clot. Salt water was the closest thing to blood that occurred in nature, and would work as a substitute for the symbols, as it had in the warehouse. Unfortunately, it evaporated far too quickly to be of any real use in prolonged ceremonies.  
  
Not that this was going to take too much longer. The blood flowing from the Wielder in a steady stream would soon weaken her to the point of death. At that moment, Carmelita would smear the first set of sigils keeping Wielder and Weapon apart. Unconsciously, Sara would reach for strength through the Witchblade, but it would not be able to sustain her life force at that point.  
  
All creatures want so desperately to live when faced with the end. Sara would be no different. The Wielder would try to drain life from the Blade out of sheer survival instinct. When Pezzini had drawn enough to seriously weaken the Gauntlet as well, Carmelita would smear the second set of sigils. This would free the Witchblade to act.  
  
The Gauntlet would take that freedom and abandon Sara to save itself. After all, it wanted to live just as much as the woman. The Witchblade would be as weak as it had ever been at that point. It would be unable to protect itself from the unmaking ceremony. Soon the blood of the Mother would be freed from the Branch, and Ceto would be whole for the first time in ages untold.  
  
Carmelita watched the blood flow over Sara's arm, trying to gauge when to erase the first sigil. She was so wrapped up in watching Pezzini that she did not see the black shadow that flowed in through the window by the fire escape.  
  
Ian slipped into the apartment through his usual window. The blood smell was much stronger here, as was the nearly inaudible song of gathering power. It was a thing more felt in the bones than heard, and right now it was shaking his with an intense vibration.  
  
He moved further into the loft, eyes riveted on the tableau before him. Sara was bound from neck to ankle on her bed, blood flowing in a steady stream from a long cut up the inside of her arm. Carmelita sat next to her, any pretense at humanity now gone. Her hair was a writhing mass of snakes, what should have been tanned flesh was scaled and banded like a viper.  
  
She held a bloody blade in one hand, the other poised over the Witchblade. She was watching Sara closely, patiently waiting for something, but he knew not what. Whatever it was, it couldn't bode well for Lady Sara. Nottingham raised his silenced pistol, centering it on Carmelita's forehead, and fired. To his horrified surprise, the bullet froze in midair about ten feet away from her head.  
  
"Ah, the pretty face with the ssso-clever mind. I am sssorry darling, but I wasss prepared for any attemptsss at interference." Carmelita's voice dripped with false sympathy. "Nothing bound to the Witchblade can reach me, which meansss nothing of you or yoursss can passss through the barrier, Knight."  
  
Nottingham walked forward, a glance at the ground from his new angle showing the circle of protection painted on the floor. He didn't recognize the symbols, but that didn't stop them from working, and working quite well, against him.  
  
There had to be a loophole somewhere in the wards. It was too bad he couldn't read them. It would make it easier to find. Now he was reduced to trial and error, and he didn't have a lot of time to figure it out. Sara was unnaturally pale under the criss-crossing of rope. The blood pouring from her arm was hideously reminiscent of sand from an hourglass.  
  
Ian tried the most obvious things first, trying to force the barrier with his body, pushing something that wasn't a weapon at the circle, and trying to erase the lines. None of them worked, and the nasty jolt he got for coming into contact with the circle threw him across the room both times. The second time, Nottingham hit the wall and dropped to the floor, unmoving.  
  
Carmelita had amused herself by watching his efforts while waiting for Sara to bleed out a little more. Now she turned her attention back to the Wielder. It was time. She reached a scaled hand down and rubbed out the first series of glyphs above the Gauntlet.  
  
For a moment the Witchblade blazed with light as the connection was restored, but the glow quickly began to recede as Sara pulled on the newfound source of life-energy. The Gauntlet did it's best to aid it's Wielder at first, giving it's strength freely. The flow of blood began to slow to a trickle as the Gauntlet sent tendrils of silver out to hold the wound closed. It was the only thing it could do, for the Witchblade was meant to slay and offer defense, not heal.  
  
The Gauntlet's assistance might have been enough to keep Sara alive until help could come, if she hadn't already lost so much blood. The Gorgon watched in glee as the red jewel began to flicker like a candle in a draft. Still she waited, fingers just above the second set of symbols.  
  
Finally the flickering became less frantic, fading to the faintest red pinprick in an otherwise grey stone. In that moment, Carmelita slid her hand downward, smearing the second set of glyphs. For a long moment nothing seemed to happen. She stared at the Gauntlet, wondering if she had waited too long.  
  
A soft click echoed through the silence, and the bracelet fell with a muffled thump to the floor.  
  
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo  
  
A glass display case shattered as the stone serpent slammed into it. Ceto had been aiming for Irons, but he dodged at the last second. She was getting closer with each attack, his mortal frame beginning to weary. Her avatar was badly damaged, but she was beginning to think it still had enough cohesion to finish the job.  
  
Her head reared up in preparation for another strike when the song of a triumphant Gorgon reached her ears. The mother of monsters paused to savor the moment, ignoring the mortal who had fallen at her feet. The accursed Witchblade was in the hands of her daughter. Soon she would be whole again.  
  
Kenneth felt a terrible pain in his hand that traveled up to his heart. His bond with the Witchblade strained and then snapped. The sudden emptiness inside Irons roared and echoed as he dropped to his knees. The mace rested heavy in his hand, but he had too much of a survival instinct to let it fall from his fingers.  
  
Ceto looked down at her kneeling opponent. His white-blonde head was bent at the neck, his arms rested at his sides. She could not resist the urge to gloat. After all, this mortal had been driving her to fits of fury for millennia. Victory was as sweet as it had been long in coming. "My daughter hasss dessstroyed the artifact, Priessst. All thossse centuriesss of plotting brought down, and you have yourssself to thank for it. You were too clever for your own good, tampering with my offssspring sssealed your fate."  
  
Irons let her words roll through him, temporarily blotting out the awful emptiness inside him. In their wake came understanding, followed by a wave of pure rage. How dare this relic, relegated to the history books and mythological references, interfere with his plans and attempt to take his life? This was his time, his world. Creatures like her had had their chance and fallen to the wayside. He was the only god in his universe, the only law and power. There was no room for moth-eaten anachronisms here. It was time that he showed the serpent that her place was beneath his heel.  
  
His jaw clenched and Irons came to his feet, putting the motion of his whole body into one last swing of the mace. It slammed up into the jaw of the gloating avatar, shattering it and driving up through the skull. Stone rained down around him as Ceto abandoned the useless form. The serpent could not hold together without her magic.  
  
Kenneth permitted himself a small smirk as he twirled the mace that had served him so well, "And that is why the Gods are dead. They simply can not pass up an opportunity to pontificate."  
  
The moment of smugness passed, unable to fill the void left by the absence of the Witchblade in his soul. He stood there letting the bittersweet mixture of emotions brought on by the Pyrric victory wash over him. He had won the battle, but the cost had been higher than he wanted to pay. For a time he was lost in the pain of emptiness. It felt like he had lost Elizabeth all over again, only worse.  
  
He brought his hand up to look at, realizing suddenly that it no longer hurt. The back of his hand was pure and unblemished. There was no sign that the Witchblade had ever graced his flesh or held his soul. The unmarked skin was almost as shocking as the emptiness inside his mind.  
  
For the first time in ages uncounted he was alone in his head. There was no second voice whispering in his ear, no eyes overlaid with his own, no will truly, save his. The sensation was frightening and liberating at the same time. He was free now to pursue any agenda he wished without thinking first of the Witchblade.  
  
The thought seemed strange, almost unnatural. With a start, the master manipulator realized he had spent centuries under a hand far subtler even than his. The Witchblade had moved him as it willed and needed, and made him think it was his own idea the entire time. Awed and inspired by the skill of the ancient weapon, Kenneth vowed to increase his scope, vision, and technique.  
  
He walked away from the Witchblade Room, deciding a shower, some wine, and a few calls were in order. There were plans and pawns to set into motion. He would also need to speak to Immo. It was going to be important that a clone of himself was readied against future need. Now that he was not obsessed with the longevity that only the Witchblade granted, other solutions could and would be actively pursued. 


	20. Eye of the Storm

Chapter 20  
  
Triumphant, Carmelita reached a scaled hand down to pick up the Witchblade. Before she could touch it, lighting so bright it must have struck the fire escape, accompanied by a violent clap of thunder, shattered the silence of the room. A gust of wind blew in through the window Ian had not bothered to close, causing the temperature in the apartment to plummet.  
  
Lighting flashed again, illuminating the lean figure standing in front of the glass. The wind blew around him, making the silk of his traditional Asian robes flap and lifting the ends of black hair that had been pulled back in a queue. As the light faded, he seemed to disappear, only to return on the next strike, closer than before.  
  
He should not be able to pass the barrier any more than the unconscious man on the floor, and yet Carmelita paused. There was something about his demeanor that frightened her. She found herself taking a step back, although she couldn't say why.  
  
The figure stopped before the circle, looking at the Gorgon with a face filled with cold fury. Very deliberately he stepped across the barrier, dark eyes glittering like jet. The look promised a slow and lingering death as he stepped closer. His hands flexed as if he was preparing to strike.  
  
Carmelita took another step back, her foot touching the edge of the barrier. She could go no further. The enchantment kept her in, as it kept others out. The circle could only be taken down ritually. How the Asian man had passed through it, and was immune to her gaze, she did not know. The temperature in the room continued to drop. Carmelita could see the white plume of her breath, but none from him. It gave her some clues as to what his nature could be, but not enough to be sure about how to fight him.  
  
He stopped a breath away from her, rage visibly crackling in the air around him. It manifested in a peculiar dancing green lightning, rather like St. Elmo's Fire. His hands rose slowly from his sides as if floating. The wind blew even harder, called by the gesture that held a command. Papers coasted about the room, the trash can fell over, all manner of small objects shifted under the onslaught. Scarlet sleeves danced before him as he pulled his arms in toward his chest.  
  
In a sudden gesture, he flung those same arms toward the Gorgon. The green lightning leapt from his hands to strike Carmelita full in the chest. The blast knocked her back into the barrier with such force that it gave with a shower of ruby sparks. Carmelita skidded across the concrete floor of the loft and did not get up.  
  
As the barrier came down, the bullet fell from where it had been held in magic's thrall. It bounced on the hardwood floor and rolled across the room. It struck the unconscious assassin on the cheek and stopped.  
  
"Danny?" the brunette's voice was weak, but audible.  
  
"I'm here Sara," He knelt at Sara Pezzini's side and wrapped his hands around her arm, holding the wound closed as the Witchblade had before abandoning her.  
  
"Guess I really screwed up, huh?" Sara rasped.  
  
"Well, you did wish to be free of the Witchblade on several occasions. In the future, please be more careful about what you wish for." Danny tried to smile, but it barely crossed his lips before disappearing.  
  
A tear slid down his face as he watched his best friend continue to weaken, even with his hands holding her wound closed. The blood loss was too severe. If she weren't dying, he couldn't touch her to offer what help he was. The irony of the situation was not lost on him at all.  
  
Realizing Danny's attention was on Sara, what was it with this girl? Carmelita stood up. Her scales were singed, but she was largely unhurt. It was good to be a demigoddess. She picked up the Witchblade. It lay cold and dull in her hand. The Gorgon gave a wordless cry at her triumph, raising the Gauntlet aloft and singing a paean to Ceto. She turned to the altar she had set up in preparation of the second part of the ritual.  
  
Carmelita laid the Witchblade on the strange black altar. It had blood grooves that radiated out from a round depression in the center. The bracelet form just fit inside the hollow. Continuing to chant, the Gorgon held her still bloody blade aloft. Sara's blood began to smoke as the ritual knife heated. Soon it was glowing like white phosphorus, and impossible to look upon.  
  
Danny looked up as soon as the Gorgon started chanting, and swore harshly. He could not stop her without taking his hands away from Sara, which, if he did, she would die. Besides, he was not sure that he could stop Medusa. He'd thrown everything at her he could, and she'd gotten back up. He wasn't about to risk Sara's life over a maybe.  
  
The Gorgon began the downward arc that would drive the burning blade into the Witchblade when a soft 'pfft' sounded behind her. Carmelita lurched as the bullet entered the back of her head, the circle on the floor now nothing but a painted series of symbols.  
  
As she fell, the barely standing form of Nottingham was revealed. He was leaning against the wall for support, but his arm was rock-steady. He watched the serpents settle into black locks, and the scales disappear. Medusa had gone; leaving the shell that was Carmelita behind like a shed skin.  
  
Was it over? He didn't know. All he was sure of was Sara needed him. It took him two tries to get the gun holstered, but he succeeded. Once his hands were free, he dialed the precinct direct, telling the dispatcher that there was an officer down, and giving Pezzini's name and address.  
  
Ian figured it would be faster than waiting for 911 to redirect the call, and was proven right when the welcome wail of an emergency vehicle broke through the other ambient night sounds almost before he could hang up the phone.  
  
The exhausted assasin traded looks with the guardian spirit holding Sara to the earth. They both loved her, would sacrifice anything for her. In that moment, they understood one another perfectly.  
  
Danny gave him a small smile, "You've got it bad."  
  
"I know." Ian nodded.  
  
"At least you've got good taste. Take care of her will you? After this stunt, I'm probably going to have my haunting license revoked." Danny said ruefully as he began to fade.  
  
"If there is any justice in this universe, you will be back at Lady Sara's side very soon." Ian said to the vanishing figure.  
  
He pushed away from the steadying wall and stumbled to take Danny's place at Sara's side. Nottingham ripped the remnants of his white shirt off and used it to bind Pezzini's arm. The frigid air bit into his exposed skin, but he ignored it. The only thing on his mind was the survival of the woman beside him.  
  
"This's been a helluva firs' date," Sara slurred as she looked over at Nottingham's bent head.  
  
"I admit, I am wondering what to do for a second date that could top it," Ian glanced up from the cords he was cutting.  
  
"M'not sure I'd survive a secon' date," Sara groaned.  
  
"I...I understand Lady Sara," Ian closed his eyes in regret. He had feared such a response.  
  
"Jus kidding, Ian. But nex' time, les jus order Chinese an rent a movie, 'k?"  
  
"That sounds...fine. That would be just fine." Nottingham relaxed; glad Sara hadn't decided she never wanted to see him again.  
  
Once her bonds were cut, he covered her with the blankets that had been on the floor and went to unlock the door to her apartment. The sirens sounded like they were right outside. Any minute now, they'd come bursting up the stairs and take Sara to the hospital.  
  
As he limped back to her side, the Witchblade caught his eye. He paused beside it, gloved hands hesitating over the dulled metal. He couldn't just leave it lying there; it would end up in a police evidence locker. Sara was in no condition to take it back, and might not want it anyway. She had railed against the Gauntlet's interference in her life so often, and tonight it's presence in her life had nearly caused her death.  
  
Once before the Witchblade had left Sara's wrist, and he had returned it to what he had thought was its rightful place. He still thought that, but he knew now that such a decision was not his to make. Nor was it his master's, no matter what Irons liked to believe about himself. It was Sara's decision, and right now she was in no shape to make it. Not knowing what else to do, Ian pocketed the Witchblade. He would hold it in trust for her until she was ready.  
  
The End...for now.  
  
Ok gentle readers, I know what you're thinking. How can I stop there? The answer is, it's the best place I can come up with. Part three is percolating in my widdle brain, so trust me. This was the only place I could have stopped that would not have been above and beyond cruel. I thank you all for reading. It's been a wild ride, and I've enjoyed every second. I'm glad you all made it with me. Be thinking about how you think Sara and co. are going to deal with the changes. Will Sara take the Blade back after all her bitching? If so, why? If no, what will happen with her and Ian? Ahhh, the best part of thinking up a story, the questions to be answered. Love to you all, I appreciate the reviews, opinions, and camraderie.  
  
Lassar 


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